<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Moving Forward by jolecia</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985019">Moving Forward</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolecia/pseuds/jolecia'>jolecia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Poldark (TV 2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Fever Dreams, Friendship, George-centric, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Reconciliation, Season/Series 05, Tumblr Prompt, but not very much because i'm squeamish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:00:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>24,056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985019</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolecia/pseuds/jolecia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When George saves Ross' life from the French General, Hanson decides to take immediate revenge. Stuck at Nampara, seriously injured, he and the Poldarks must learn to get along as he recovers in order to eliminate the threat that Hanson and his brother pose for good.</p>
<p>In other words, an AU of the series 5 finale, based on a prompt on tumblr where George is badly injured and has to stay at Nampara to recover with the help of Dwight, Ross and Demelza.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Demelza carne/ross poldark (background), Dwight Enys &amp; George Warleggan, Dwight Enys/Caroline Penvenen (background), Elizabeth Chynoweth/George Warleggan (past), George Warleggan &amp; Cary Warleggan, George Warleggan &amp; Ursula Warleggan, George Warleggan &amp; Valentine Warleggan, Ross Poldark &amp; George Warleggan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Well, gentlemen, now that this…inconvenient matter is being dealt with, I think it is time that I take my leave.”</p><p>Sir George Warleggan forced his knee to stop bobbing nervously up and down as the loathsome Mr Merceron stood from his seat in Trenwith’s parlour, the smug, self-satisfied look on his weathered face quite horrible to behold. His mind was in a whirl at the sight—had been ever since the man had suggested passing on proof of Ross Poldark’s attempt at espionage to General Toussaint, thereby likely seeing his longstanding rival killed and the report of the proposed French invasion of the south west suppressed. He had not, at first, quite believed that such a thing was being said to him. As unscrupulous as he had often been in his own business dealings, a scheme which would leave a man, however disliked, dead by collaborating with one who meant both his home county and his country at large great harm was going a little too far even for him. And yet, it seemed as if Merceron and his horrid brother were quite satisfied to use the French to rid themselves of a nuisance to them, consequences be damned, and it had left George without the slightest idea of what to say or do in response to their plots.</p><p>“Will you not stay for another drink?” his uncle asked, eyebrow raised. George glanced over at him, trying for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening to gauge his feelings with regards to the night’s rather alarming proceedings. Cary did not appear to be overtly concerned—he was of a kind with Merceron when it came to ruthlessness, in ways that had made his nephew uncomfortable in the past on a number of occasions—but not so long ago he had agreed that some distance from the two men would be preferable, for the sake of their own reputations if nothing else. For what, then, did he wish now?</p><p>Merceron seemed about to reply to the offer, but whether it had been to accept or deny it, they never found out, for George cut across him as politely as he could.</p><p>“Uncle, I am sure Mr Merceron is tired after the day’s events,” he said. “It is very late, and he shall no doubt wish to return to his lodgings in Truro.”</p><p>Despite his courteous words, his tone brooked no argument. There was a short pause, before Merceron inclined his head in George’s direction. There was a slight smile upon his face, but the twist of his lips greater resembled a grimace, his eyes cold, like two pieces of hard flint set deep beneath the ridge of his cruel brow.</p><p>“You are quite right,” he agreed, and though his tone was mild, George sensed that he was not entirely pleased. “I must return to Truro. Mr Warleggan—(he nodded to Cary)—when we next meet, I hope that our…little problem will be no more, and our reputations shall be restored. Sir George, if you would perhaps be so kind as to show me to the door? There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”</p><p>“By all means.” The request was not quite polite, and George would have very much liked to refuse, but the look in Merceron’s eye told him that he would not leave until he got what he wanted. With that in mind, he pushed himself out of his seat and followed out through the door and into the hall.</p><p>“I sense, Sir George,” Merceron remarked once the door to the parlour had been closed behind him with a soft click, “that you are not entirely comfortable with this plan.”</p><p>George opened his mouth to deny it, but Merceron held up a hand to silence him. He glared at the man, wishing to make it abundantly clear that he did not appreciate being shushed like a contrary child.</p><p>“I understand why you might be concerned—(George had to bite his tongue to stop himself from retorting “that, I very much doubt”)—but I assure you, none of this shall ever be attached to your name. If all goes well, nobody will even know that anyone was involved at all, save for Poldark and the General, of course. Enys might suspect something, but who would listen to his word over mine?”</p><p>George was sorely tempted to point out that as the Enyses had, in spreading the word about Merceron’s mistreatment of his prisoners, managed to do some severe damage to the man’s reputation, it was quite possible that Dwight’s testimony would be taken very seriously, if not by various official persons, then by the court of public opinion. Still, he did not think it wise to rile the man, nor to remind him of the fact that Ross was not his sole enemy in Cornwall, and so he quashed the urge before he could make any imprudent observations.</p><p>“And if all does not go well?,” he said instead. “If your brother is caught, if his part in this scheme is discovered, it will not take long for your name to be connected to the whole business as well.”</p><p>Merceron smiled then, that cold, cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked like a shark, George thought, cruel and emotionless.</p><p>“Oh, there shall be no risk of that, Sir George,” he replied. “If my half-brother should be so foolish as to be caught in the act, so to speak, I shall be the first to condemn him for his deplorable plots. I am well-known amongst those who matter as a man dedicated to the service of His Majesty and this country against the Jacobins and their sympathisers, and Ralph and I have never been…close. Naturally, no suspicion shall be attached to me.”</p><p><em>What you are is a traitor, </em>George thought. <em>A filthy, cruel, horrid traitor and an arrogant hypocrite, prepared to torture those you deem Jacobin criminals whilst using those of the same sympathies to rid yourself of a man whom you have deemed troublesome to you, who would be willing—even happy—to abandon your family, loathsome though he is, to the consequences of your shared scheme, just as long as you remain unscathed. </em>It was then that he realised that he could not simply sit at Trenwith, hoping that this whole mess would somehow resolve itself. He would have to do something, would have to intervene. But how?</p><p>“I see,” he returned, trying to keep the coldness out of his voice. If he wished for Merceron to leave, he would have to let him believe that he had succeeded in persuading him not to protest the plan. “Well, please do not let me keep you, Mr Merceron. The roads here can be dangerous so late at night, and I should not wish to delay your return to Truro.”</p><p>Merceron did not move, staring at him narrowly.</p><p>“I should be pleased to hear that I have set your mind at ease on the matter,” he said. “It is unwise for allies to disagree when one wishes for one’s plans to succeed.”</p><p>George swallowed, mind racing. He needed to think of a plan of his own, needed to get rid of Merceron before it became too late to act.</p><p>“I see that there is little risk of the reputations of my family and myself being harmed by tonight’s events, whatever they may be” he lied through his teeth. “And if you feel that Mr Hanson’s actions, no matter how successful they are, shall not reflect on either of our…sympathies, I have no further objections to offer you.”</p><p>Merceron nodded, brisk and satisfied.</p><p>“Good, good,” he said. “Well, Sir George, I shall take my leave of you. If you do not object, I will take the liberty of calling upon you in the morning, where I hope to bring you good news.”</p><p>With those words, he turned on his heel and left through the heavy front door, without waiting to hear any potential objections to his visiting the next day that might have been issued. His departure did little to ease George’s mind, however. He had wasted too much time dithering, and he needed to act at once. A vague plan was beginning to form in his mind, but did he have the nerve or the daring to carry it out?</p><p>“Trigg!,” he called into the shadows once he was entirely sure that Merceron was gone. <em>“Trigg!”</em></p><p>“Sir?” The footman stepped silently out into the candlelight, livery immaculate and face expressionless underneath his powdered wig.</p><p>“Trigg, would you be so good as to fetch me a pistol?,” he said, then, remembering that Hanson had been armed when he left Trenwith, amended his request. “Actually, it might be best if you bring me two.”</p><p>Trigg, who was usually so poised and professional, seemed to choose that moment to forget all the training he had ever received. He stared openly at his employer, utterly baffled.</p><p>“Two…pistols, sir?,” he asked, dumbfounded. “But whatever might you do with two pistols?”</p><p>His confusion was understandable—George had never been a shooting man, and even if he were, it was hardly likely that he would be inclined to shoot pheasant or whatever it was that such people hunted in pitch darkness—but the urgency of the situation had lead him to be, perhaps unfairly, a little short with the man.</p><p>“What one usually does with pistols, I imagine,” he replied, a bite of impatience in his voice. “I certainly don’t intend to dance the gavotte with them.”</p><p>Unfortunately, this only served to make Trigg more baffled.</p><p>“Should I call for Dr Enys, sir?”</p><p>George fought the urge to throw up his hands in frustration. Would this be his lot in life now—condemned to have his staff finding evidence that he was deranged in every out of the ordinary request he ever made? He heard the grandfather clock in the parlour begin to chime. No time, no <em>time.</em></p><p>“For goodness’ sake, man,” he snapped. “I assure you I am not suffering under some unexpected fit of lunacy. Now please, make haste. I must go to Nampara, and as it is likely currently inhabited by an angry French General and a man with two pistols and no morals to speak of, it would be imprudent of me to arrive there unarmed.”</p><p>Some measure of comprehension began to dawn on Trigg’s face, clearly possessed of some inclination of what the two half-brothers had been planning, and, for once, George thanked God and the Devil for servants who listened at doors. If he wished to protest the prospect of his master flinging himself into imminent danger, he quickly masked any sign of it, and with a polite “of course, sir”, we went about his task with all possible swiftness. George felt himself relax only marginally.</p><p>“George!” Any relief that he had felt at Trigg obeying his orders was stamped out as his uncle stepped suddenly out through the parlour door to join him in the hall, a dark, angry look on his sour face. “What the devil are you doing?!”</p><p>George could only presume that Cary had overheard the last part of his exchange with Trigg, and from his expression, had been none too pleased with its contents. He swallowed nervously. The footman was one thing, but how on earth was he going to persuade his uncle?</p><p>“I am going to Nampara,” he said as calmly as he could. “This plan… Uncle, surely you see that they have gone too far?”</p><p>“It is perhaps a little…,” Cary conceded, just barely, working his jaw in displeasure. “But that is no reason for you to put yourself in danger! You—”</p><p>“But do you not see?!,” George exclaimed in exasperation. He needed to <em>go</em>, before it was too late. “These ‘Merceron devils’, as you term them, will put us all in danger if their scheme succeeds. What do you suppose General Toussaint shall do should his plans remain undiscovered? You know he harbours ill intentions towards Cornwall, and to England, and I cannot in good conscience allow knowledge of his dealings to be suppressed.”</p><p>Cary threw up his hands in frustration.</p><p>“But why must it be you?!,” he barked. “What possible—?”</p><p>“Who else will intervene? Merceron has ensured well enough that nobody else will know of it.”</p><p>His uncle looked as if he were about to say something, but at that moment, Trigg returned with two loaded pistols in his hands. George moved to take them, but Cary’s hand shot out to seize his upper arm, stopping him in his tracks. He fought back a wince as the bony fingers dug into his flesh.</p><p>“I will not permit this” the man growled, eyes flashing, giving him a little shake to emphasise his words. George sent him a defiant look, tugging his arm sharply out of his grip.</p><p>“It is not for you to permit me anything,” he replied caustically. “I am no longer a child that you may scold into submission. Or do you perhaps mean to become my jailer once more? You will not find that so easy whilst I have all my wits about me.”</p><p>He had not forgotten the man’s role in subjecting him to the awful treatments of Dr Penrose, and apparently, neither had his uncle, for an uncomfortable look that seemed ill-suited to his dour countenance stole across his face, effectively silencing his protests. George sent him one last glare, before taking the pistols from Trigg, who had been standing silently to the side, pretending not to notice that his two employers were arguing fiercely in front of him. It seemed that Cary was not completely finished, however, for, before George could reach the door, he spoke once more.</p><p>“For God’s sake, nephew, do not do this!,” he cried. “Not for the sake of a man like Poldark!”</p><p>George turned back to meet his gaze, one hand resting against the heavy wooden door.</p><p>“It is not for his sake that I am doing this.”</p><p>And with that, he stepped through the doorway and out into the cold night air, without looking back.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He rode as fast as he could, glad of the full moon that hung high in the night sky—he wouldn’t have fancied his chances of arriving on time without it, at least not without running the risk of plummeting straight over a cliff in the dark. As it was, he made good time to Nampara, only allowing his horse to slow when the shambling old house came into sight. He thought he could just about make out a light in the window as he dismounted, but as he approached, nervously adjusting his grip on the two pistols Trigg had given him, he saw that something was wrong. Even though there was a low fire crackling in the grate of the parlour, there was nobody in the room. Nor could he hear any kind of movement from the house. Was he already too late? There didn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle, but nevertheless neither Ross nor Hanson were there. In that case, where could they be?</p><p>It was then that he noticed the faint sound of metal clashing upon metal drifting on the wind from a nearby barn. Was that…? He strained his ears, and again and again he heard it, clearer and more distinct now that he was listening for it. He crept forward cautiously, his grip on the two pistols white-knuckled, and, careful not to be heard or seen, slipped through the doorway and into the cavernous darkness, lit only by the thin beams of moonlight shining through the slats of the worn roof.</p><p><em>Well</em>, he thought as he took in the scene that lay before him. <em>You wanted to find both Ross and Hanson, and now you have.</em> The reason behind that sound of clashing metal had become apparently clear the moment he had stepped into the barn—Ross was engaged in a fierce duel with a man whom George could only presume was General Toussaint, blades flashing as they danced furiously in the faint moonlight. Beyond them stood Hanson and—much to his surprise—Demelza, who looked pale and drawn and worried. Hanson still had one of his pistols, he saw, and was watching the two men fight with the calculating precision of a snake waiting to strike.</p><p>All of a sudden, it seemed as if Ross were about to overpower the General, and it was then that Hanson uncoiled, levelling his pistol directly between the man’s shoulders. George knew that he could no longer afford to wait. Almost without thinking, he raised the first pistol and pulled the trigger.</p><p>The bang was deafening, and so startled by it were the other inhabitants of the barn that they barely seemed to notice as General Toussaint crumpled into a heap on the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Ross staggered forward as his opponent collapsed, searching about him for the source of the noise. His expression of wide-eyed astonishment, so out of place on his usually scowling countenance, would have amused George in any other situation, but a movement out of the corner of his eye, past the other man’s shoulder, had caught his attention. Hanson. The man had floundered at the sight of him, stunned by the sudden turn of events, but as the General crumpled down upon the floor, and he came to understand exactly what it was that had happened, his expression turned black with rage. The movement which had caught George’s eye, he realised, was the pistol meant for Ross having found a new target. In a split second, he knew what the man was about to do. Eyes wide and alarmed, he pointed his second gun towards his would-be assailant and, forcing down the instinct to hesitate, pulled the trigger.</p><p>In the chaos of the moment, it was unclear which of them had fired first. Sparks flew, and George felt the smell of gunpowder sting in his nose, Hanson’s yell of pain echoing in his ears amid the reverberations of the shots. Other people were shouting as well, he thought, but it all seemed strangely distant as he noticed a sudden, sharp pain in his side. The pistols slipped from his hand as the world tilted alarmingly, but there was no accompanying thud to the ground, as if someone had caught him from behind. More shouting, desperate and urgent, but his world had narrowed entirely to that pain, a strange darkness beginning to encroach on his vision. There was a reason why he should try to fight it, he thought, but he could not remember why. Yes, why?</p><p><em>Well, at least I might see Elizabeth again,</em> was the last thing he thought before he allowed the blackness to swallow him whole.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This chapter: As Ross and Dwight rush to perform surgery on a grievously injured George, Ross begins to question everything he knows about his long-time enemy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">When he first heard the shot, Ross Poldark's immediate thought had been that that damned bastard, Hanson, had—quite literally—taken the opportunity to strike whilst his back was turned. Of course that slimy snake would never dare to attack him whilst looking him in the eye—he had neither the skill nor the honour for that. He barely had time, however, to realise that, for a man who had supposedly been shot, he was not in a great deal of pain, before he noticed that General Toussaint, rather than pressing his advantage at his opponent's distraction, was crumpled on the floor in front of him, bleeding from his neck. Had Hanson missed? But no, surely he would have felt the bullet go past him. He searched about wildly for his saviour—there must be another person here who had fired the shot. Then, his jaw dropped.</p>
<p class="western">Of all the people he might ever have expected to save his life, George Warleggan was at the very bottom of the list.</p>
<p class="western">But, as dark, confused eyes met icy blue, he had no time to ask what he was doing, or why, or even—as was his initial instinct—to splutter incoherently, before there was a sharp flurry of movement around him, and his vision was suddenly filled with sparks and smoke and gunpowder. He coughed, hearing Hanson cry out in pain behind him, but as the smoke cleared, his eyes were fixed firmly on George. It seemed as if all sound had been sucked out of the barn, save for the beat of his heart pounding in his ears, as the man slowly raised a hand to his side, sinking down to the floor. He saw a dark shape dart towards him from behind and catch him, lowering him gently to the ground. Dwight. His friend <span>was wide-eyed, panicked, turning to stare imploringly up at him as he cradled George's head in his lap. His mouth was moving, and Ross heard his words as if from over the roar of the waves against the cliffs in a storm.</span></p>
<p class="western">“—oss, <em>Ross, help me!”</em></p>
<p class="western">Ross approached slowly, as if in a trance. George was so pale that in the thin beams of moonlight coming down from the roof of the barn, he looked almost-blue white, his flickering eyes fogged with pain as they rolled back into his head, somewhere between the threshold of conscious and unconscious. His left hand, pressed against his abdomen, was wet with blood. It looked black in the darkness, but Ross knew it would be a vivid, poisonous red.</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Ross</em>!,” Dwight cried again, his tone sharp and urgent. “Make haste, <em>please</em>! He is losing blood fast!”</p>
<p class="western">The fear in his friend's voice was enough to shake him out of his trance. Without another moment's thought, he sprang into action.</p>
<p class="western">“I will take him” he said, slipping his arms underneath the injured man's chest and knees and hoisting him up into a bridal hold which he was sure George would have objected to most vociferously had he not been near unconsciousness. As it was, he simply let out a soft groan, head lolling against his shoulder.</p>
<p class="western">The rush back to Nampara was not an easy one. George, though not heavy, was a dead weight in his arms, and he feared jostling him too greatly, lest he make the injury worse. He vaguely noted that Prudie was stood outside as he hurried past, and he could hear Dwight cajoling her into fetching supplies behind him despite her protests of fear of blood. Navigating through the doors and up the stairs was difficult, but he managed it, and he wasted no time in kicking open the door to one of the unused rooms on the landing and placed George gently down onto the bed. Dwight followed in after him, his bag of medical tools in tow.</p>
<p class="western">George let out a quiet whimper as he was set down atop the sheets. He looked little better in the soft candlelight than he had in the harsh moonlight, his pallid face fast turning an ever more unpleasant shade of white. There was a large, dark stain seeping through onto his coat, growing ever larger by the second.</p>
<p class="western">“Come” said Dwight.</p>
<p class="western">Shrugging off his coat and waistcoat and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Ross gave him a sharp nod, and they moved into action. They made quick work of his clothes, so that when Prudie entered the room with a bowl of steaming water and a pile of clean white cloths in her hands, they had stripped them away from him entirely, and the gaping wound, blood pouring from it down onto the sheets, was visible for all to see. She gave a little squawk, turning faintly green and, placing the basin and the cloths roughly down on the bedside table, rushed back out through the door as fast as she could. Dwight, however, paid her no mind.</p>
<p class="western">“Pressure on the wound” he said sharply, passing Ross one of the cloths Prudie had left behind, and though he would usually have objected to being ordered about in such a manner, he did what he was told without complaint. Dwight was George's only hope at this point, and he was not about to waste time arguing when a man's life was at stake.</p>
<p class="western">George moaned in pain as he pressed the cloth to the wound. The fabric turned from white to red in a matter of seconds as it soaked up the blood. Ross could feel the hot wetness of it under his palm, and a wave of nausea threatened to overcome him as the coppery smell of it filled his nose, but he forced himself not to move his hand away. He swallowed the sensation down, his eyes flickering up towards where Dwight stood, cleaning tool upon tool in the hot water. Ross swallowed again. He had seen and sustained enough injuries in battle to know exactly how each and every one of them was used.</p>
<p class="western">After he had finished, Dwight turned back towards the bed and spoke again, this time directly to George. His tone, however, was quite different from the tart instructions he had given Ross.</p>
<p class="western">“George,” he said, in a voice of forced, gentle calm. George let out another small whimper, his head turning vaguely in the direction of the address. “George, I'm afraid that what I am about to do is going to hurt a great deal, but I need you to stay as still as you can.”</p>
<p class="western">George couldn't seem to muster a response beyond a faint murmur, his head lolling back onto the pillows, eyes screwed tightly shut. Dwight looked up at Ross, his expression grim.</p>
<p class="western">“You will need to hold him down” he said. “Can you do that?”</p>
<p class="western">Ross' eyes widened. He felt faintly sick.</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Ross</em><span>,” Dwight repeated, and there was a real bite of urgency in his voice. “</span><em>Can </em><span>you do that?”</span></p>
<p class="western">Ross forced himself to nod.</p>
<p class="western">“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I will.”</p>
<p class="western">The process was horrible. The pain had sharpened George's senses, and he kept being yanked back into horrible, agony-filled awareness each time he seemed to be falling back into unconsciousness. It had lent him an unlikely strength for one so badly injured, and Ross had to fight to keep him still as he twisted and turned beneath his palms, the cries that escaped through his tightly-clenched teeth mingling with the roaring in his ears. It seemed to go on forever, until, finally, <em>finally</em><span>, Dwight stepped back, wiping his hands down with a cloth, and announced himself, ever so slightly shakily, to be finished.</span></p>
<p class="western">“He will need some clean clothes,” his said as he tied bandages about his waist. “Something which will keep him warm.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross called for Prudie and, a few moments later, she returned with one of his nightshirts and an old woollen house gown that he had never much taken to wearing bundled in her arms. Ross doubted they would fit well, but they'd no other options, and so he helped Dwight slip George into them without comment. The man was fully unconscious now, and did not so much as stir throughout the process, his too-thin form sickeningly limp in their arms.</p>
<p class="western">“You should clean yourself up, Ross,” Dwight said as they settled him back down into the bed. He had pulled a warm quilt over him, carefully adjusting the pillows behind his head. “I think—”</p>
<p class="western">But the rest of his words had faded away to white noise. He was falling into that strange trance again, and it was as if Dwight were talking to him through glass, his lips moving but no sound coming out. He blinked once, slowly, and then turned about and, as if moving through thick, sticky molasses, walked out of the room without a word.</p>
<p class="western">He headed to his bedchamber more from instinct than intention. As he slipped through the door, he swayed on his feet, and he put out a hand to steady himself. Why had he come here? There was something, <em>something...</em><span> But God his head hurt, throbbing painfully with the beat of his heart, and his eyelids drooping as if there was a great weight attached to them. He thought he could hear scuffling and stumbling somewhere nearby, and angry voices that he faintly recognised but could not place, but they seemed so distant amid that strange haze that he could barely tell if they were real.</span></p>
<p class="western">He let out a groan, stumbling over to lean heavily upon his desk, his head bowed. There was a basin of water there, he realised, and with a grateful sigh, he leaned down and splashed some onto his face. The warm liquid made him feel a little better, but he had become suddenly aware of a faint coppery smell tickling at his nostrils, and when he lowered his hands from his face, he saw that the water in the bowl had turned red. Red on his hands. Blood. Blood on his hands, and on his clothes.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Cleaning, he remembered suddenly. That was what he was meant to be doing. Cleaning himself up. Where...? Water, that was what he needed. More water. He would have to go outside to the pump and get some. With an enormous effort, he managed to push himself away from the desk and stagger out of the room, down the stairs and, with only a brief pause to snatch up a bucket from the kitchen, out into the yard. The pump was stiff from cold, but he forced it to yield through sheer brute force, and he was soon filling the bucket up easily.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“Ah, there you are, Uncle.”</p>
<p class="western">The voice broke through his concentration so swiftly and suddenly that he gave a violent start, almost upending the half-full bucket with his foot. Whirling around, he saw that Geoffrey Charles was standing in the doorway behind him.</p>
<p class="western">“You were successful, I take it?” he asked after a short pause. Words, he found, were not coming easily to him.</p>
<p class="western">Geoffrey Charles grinned.</p>
<p class="western">“Absolutely,” he said, but the expression slipped from his face as he took the sight of Ross in. “Is that blood? Are you hurt? What happened? Did the General—?”</p>
<p class="western">“It is not my blood” said Ross gruffly, more to stem the incessant flow of questions than anything else. The concern on Geoffrey Charles' face turned to confusion.</p>
<p class="western">“Then whose blood is it?” he asked. “Toussaint's?”</p>
<p class="western">Given hindsight, Ross might have been able to come up with a vaguely sensible answer but, unfortunately, tired and overwrought as he was, he merely blurted out:—</p>
<p class="western">“Your stepfather's.”</p>
<p class="western">Geoffrey Charles stared at him incredulously.</p>
<p class="western">“<em>You have murdered Uncle George?!”</em></p>
<p class="western">Ross stared back agape.</p>
<p class="western">“I— Why would you—? No, of course I haven't murdered George,” he spluttered. “He was shot by Hanson.”</p>
<p class="western">Hanson. <em>Hanson.</em> He suddenly remembered that they had left him in the barn. Was he still there? Was he even alive? Try as he might he couldn't recall—the memory of it was too clouded with the thought of George crumpling to the ground, white as candle wax and bleeding red. Before he could consider what he was doing, he had turned to rush off towards the barn, but Geoffrey Charles caught him by the arm.</p>
<p class="western">“We have already brought him into the house,” he said. “Dr Enys should be treating him now. I don't think he's so badly injured though, else he wouldn't have been able to complain so loudly about it. But I don't understand. Whyever would he want to shoot Uncle George?”</p>
<p class="western">“I suspect him that saving my life had something to do with it” groused Ross, bending down to pick up his bucket of water and heading back into the house. Geoffrey Charles, looking more and more baffled by the second, followed him.</p>
<p class="western">“He—? What—? But that makes no sense at all!,” he exclaimed. “Uncle George hates you. Why would he want to save your life? Was it he that killed the General?”</p>
<p class="western">“And shot Hanson.” Ross placed the bucket heavily down on the table in the parlour, wishing, for once, that his nephew had inherited his mother's rather than his father's tact. But then, the Poldarks had always been more inclined towards bluntness—and himself no exception to that rule—and so he could hardly blame Geoffrey Charles for voicing the very thought that was creeping into his own mind so frankly.</p>
<p class="western">“I thought you had done that,” Geoffrey Charles replied with a soft sound of stunned amazement. “Well, good for him, I suppose.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross shook his head.</p>
<p class="western">“No,” he said, and his voice came out hoarse and grim. “No, not good. Hanson injured him very badly.”</p>
<p class="western">“Oh. I— How bad—?”</p>
<p class="western">But Ross couldn't bring himself to answer, couldn't bring himself to say that he didn't know, that George very well might not— He stared down at the water in the bucket, turned almost black in the dim firelight, not daring to look up. A horrible silence stretched between them.</p>
<p class="western">“Well, I suppose that explains why Hanson wasn't worse injured himself,” Geoffrey Charles spoke up, more as an attempt to break it than anything else. “When he wakes, make sure to tell Uncle George to practise his aim.”</p>
<p class="western">The attempt at humour fell flat, lost in that awful, oppressive silence. All Ross could think of was “when he wakes”. When, when, <em>if, if not...</em> Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Geoffrey Charles casting about for something to say.</p>
<p class="western">“Where is Aunt Demelza?”</p>
<p class="western">The question was enough to jolt Ross out of his stupor, and his head shot up to look about him. Where <em>was </em>Demelza? He hadn't seen her at all in the house. Had she even followed from the barn after – after what happened? Would she even have wanted to, or had something else—?</p>
<p class="western">“Do you want me to see if I can find her?” Geoffrey Charles asked, and it was clear that some, if not all of what he had been thinking had shown plainly on his face. Ross nodded.</p>
<p class="western">“If you would,” he said. “Just – just make sure that she's safe.”</p>
<p class="western">“I will, Uncle.”</p>
<p class="western">And with that, Geoffrey Charles turned on his heel and strode out through the door, and Ross felt himself sink down over the table once again, as if a great hand was pushing down between his shoulder-blades, too strong to resist. He glanced down at his stained hands. Demelza would be cross with him for getting blood on her table when she came back. If she came back. Another if. If, if, <em>if</em>. When he thought about it, it seemed presumptuous to assume she would simply return and play the part of the happy wife after how he had treated her, no matter the reason. Now that she knew, would it change things for her? His mind travelled back to her speech to Toussaint. <em>“A liar, and a bully.” </em>It had been a trick, yes—a trick which had, in part, prevented him being the one on the wrong end of a bullet. But nonetheless, he couldn't help but wonder, in a tiny, niggling corner of his mind, whether there had been a grain of truth to her words.</p>
<p class="western">With a fierce oath, he shoved himself sharply away from the table, in search of a scrubbing brush. He wanted to get the blood off his hands, scourge it from every part of him as if it had never been. The bristles of the brush were rough and sore against his skin, and the water bitingly cold, but he kept scrubbing and scrubbing until it was all gone. From his palms, the gaps between his fingers, congealing beneath his nails. He scrubbed until his hands turned lobster-pink, raw and painful, but he didn't care. Anything to take away the feeling of the man he had long considered as his worst enemy twisting and writhing in pain beneath his hands, anything to quiet the litany of <em>why, why, why</em> whirling about in his head.</p>
<p class="western">Once he was finished, he took the now deep red water and tossed it out into the yard and, leaving the bucket outside beside the door, headed back up to his bedchamber to change his clothes. He could hear Hanson's snarling voice, the words indistinct and jumbled from the other side of the wall. Another voice joined him, soft and calm, but lacking it's usual warmth. Dwight. <em>If only he had choked on his own blood</em>, Ross thought bitterly as he tossed the bloody shirt aside and pulled a clean one over his head. <em>That would have kept him quiet. God curse it, George, why did your aim have to be so appalling?</em> That thought, however, was immediately followed by guilt. It seemed churlish to criticise the man's aim when he had killed a man to save his life.</p>
<p class="western">And that was exactly it, was it not? The question that was plaguing him, that, no matter how he tried, he could find no answer to. <em>Why? </em>Why on God's green earth would George ever want to save his life? And why would he ever consider putting himself in such danger to do so? He hadn't simply been hurt—he had been hurt in defence of Ross, <em>for the sake </em>of Ross. And that, somehow, made it all seem so much worse.</p>
<p class="western">With a tired groan, Ross ran his hands slowly over his face, before casting a tired look towards his bed. He should sleep, he knew, but he doubted he would be able to, no matter how exhausted he felt. There was too much on his mind. George, Hanson, <em>Demelza</em>. No, he resolved, he would go back downstairs and wait, though for what he was not entirely sure.</p>
<p class="western">There was nobody in the parlour when he staggered back down the stairs. No Demelza, no Geoffrey Charles. His heart sank, though he wasn't truly sure what he had expected. He headed over to his decanter and poured himself a large glass of brandy, then headed over to the hearth and sank down beside it. The fire was low, and the room a little cold, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He tipped the brandy back and took a large swig. The taste made him a little queasy, he was so tired, but he ignored it, taking another swill.</p>
<p class="western">After an indeterminate amount of time, there was a click of a door closing, and soft footfalls approaching the hearth from behind him, and though he did not turn about to see who it was, he knew that Dwight had finished tending to Hanson and had come into the parlour. He wanted to turn to face him, to ask him...oh, so many questions, but he couldn't force himself to move. He couldn't do anything, except stare darkly into his empty glass, as if the reflections of the firelight flickering in its depths could give him the answers he so desired.</p>
<p class="western">He could hear more footsteps, then the clinking of glass, and Dwight appeared suddenly in his field of vision, two glasses of brandy held in his hands. He offered the one in his right to Ross, who took it gratefully—he doubted he could have drummed up the urge to pour himself another however much he tried. Then, he headed over to seat himself across the other side of the fireplace, moving slowly, lethargically, as if walking to the beat of a dirge. With an exhausted droop of the head, he lowered himself down, the beginnings of the early morning light seeping through the window to mingle with that of the fire making him look pale and grey. The silence stretched between them.</p>
<p class="western">“Why did he do it?”</p>
<p class="western">The question was barely audible, directed to the floor rather than to his friend, but he could not contain it any longer. Dwight jolted at the sound of it. It was, Ross knew, the one question that was rattling about in his head—amongst, whens and whats and hows and wills that terrified him for reasons both apparent and elusive—that he had no answer for. None of them had an answer, save for the man lying half-dead upstairs.</p>
<p class="western">“That,” Dwight replied grimly, “you will have to ask him.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross nodded, still not looking up. Despite his words, the other man's tone was not reassuring.</p>
<p class="western">“Will I have the chance?” he asked.</p>
<p class="western">He frowned at himself even as he said it. He had never been one to mince his words, never one to sugarcoat an unpleasant truth, so why did he not say what he meant to ask? '<em>Will he die,' </em><span>he thought.</span><em> That is what I want to know. Will he die at the hands of a bullet that had been meant for me, and leave his children without either of their parents?</em><span> His heart dropped to the region of his stomach when Dwight shook his head.</span></p>
<p class="western">“I don't know,” he replied. “If he survives the next few hours, he might... But there are still many risks. He has lost a lot of blood, and should he catch a fever from the wound...”</p>
<p class="western">He trailed off, something grim and haunted flashing across his face. His eyes had turned dark, unfocused, as if lost in a memory, and Ross wondered if he were thinking of the French prison, and the wretched wounded that he had treated amongst that awful squalor, or if, like he, he was remembering the soldiers who had died just so from such injuries in America. Then, Dwight blinked, eyes focusing once more, and the moment passed.</p>
<p class="western">“George is very strong,” he said, staring down at his own untouched brandy, as if he might soothe the blow of his earlier words—both for Ross' sake and his own. He raised the glass half-heartedly to his lips, but the taste of the liquid had him grimacing, and he lowered it again without taking anything but the tiniest of sips. “Strong in ways that not many suspect. And stubborn, just like you. If anybody can survive this, it is he.”</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Ross frowned, his gaze finding a new target as he stared across at his exhausted friend. There was something more to those words than the obvious, he couldn't help but feel, something loaded which somehow seemed important to him, but that he could not quite latch onto. It put him of a mind of the time he had ridden to Trenwith in the hopes of buying Wheal Plenty, only to be turned away at the door by Dwight, of George standing at the window, pale and wan, like a wraith on the other side of the veil, and of his questions being met with naught but silence. Something had happened between the two men, he was sure—something which had led both to Dwight's inexplicable appearance at Trenwith and to the way he spoke of him now—but he was damned if he knew what. He desperately wanted to know, but he doubted Dwight would be inclined to tell him. He suddenly thought of the vehemence with which the other man had told him to “</span>
  <em>ask George</em>
  <span>” in a recent argument of theirs, and he suspected that reviving the subject, especially in such fraught circumstances, would do nothing but start another one.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">He battled with his desire to know and his desire to act sensibly for several minutes before he was saved from saying something unwise by the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by steps in the hallway outside. Opposite him, Dwight startled out of the heavy stupor which he had been trying valiantly not to fall into, almost spilling his still un-drunk brandy, but he relaxed as the new arrival slipped through the door to the parlour, and he saw who it was. Ross, on the other hand, froze. It was Demelza. Her red hair was wilder than ever, as if she had been running her hand through it, there was a grey pallor to her skin not dissimilar to that of Dwight's, and there were dark bags underneath her usually fierce blue eyes, which were dulled with tiredness, but in that moment, Ross didn't think he had ever seen a more beautiful sight in his life.</p>
<p class="western">“Where have you been?”</p>
<p class="western">The question was blurted out roughly before his overwrought mind had a chance to catch up with his tongue, and he winced as he realised how brusque his voice had sounded. Her arrival, far from preventing him from saying something unwise as he had hoped, only seemed to have caused him to redirect the impulse. Demelza narrowed her eyes at him a little, but she either had too much grace or two little energy to express any real displeasure at his tone.</p>
<p class="western">“'Tis Morwenna,” she said instead. “She 'as had her child.”</p>
<p class="western">Dwight started for a second time, his drink once again threatening to decorate their furniture.</p>
<p class="western">“Somebody should take that from you before it starts developing a life of its own” Ross said, though the attempt at humour that he could not bring himself to feel fell rather pathetically flat. Demelza stepped forward obligingly and plucked the glass from his hand, and it was perhaps a testament to how tired they were when neither man batted so much as an eyelid as, instead of setting the brandy aside, she raised it to her own lips and swallowed it down in one long gulp.</p>
<p class="western">“I—” Dwight ignored them both. “Morwenna has given birth?”</p>
<p class="western">“Aye. 'Tis a girl.”</p>
<p class="western">“A— Are they well? I must—”</p>
<p class="western">Despite his exhaustion, Dwight was already halfway out of his seat, but Demelza pushed him gently, but firmly back down.</p>
<p class="western">“They are both fine. Rosina an' I managed well enough, an' neither Morwenna nor th' babe are any worse for 't,” she assured him. “Ye cannot be everywhere at once, Dwight. Ye are needed 'ere.”</p>
<p class="western">She hadn't entirely assuaged his worries, that much was clear, but Dwight seemed to have at least seen the sense in her words, for he slumped back against his seat, running a hand tiredly over his eyes. Demelza sat down beside him, looking concerned.</p>
<p class="western">“Is it so bad?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western">“That depends,” Dwight replied darkly. “Hanson wasn't injured severely. Some bed-rest for a few weeks and he shall be healed well enough—in fact, I recommend that he be removed to his lodgings to recover as soon as possible. But George... I don't know. Only time will tell. Prudie is watching over him right now, but he will have to be kept a careful eye on to ensure he doesn't regress.”</p>
<p class="western">“Judas” Demelza murmured.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Her gaze met Ross', and he could see in her eyes the same question that had been plaguing him throughout the night. Why? Why, why</span>
  <em>, why?</em>
  <span> Suddenly, Ross was horribly aware that he could not bear to sit there in that parlour asking </span>
  <em>why</em>
  <span> to people who had no answers for him. He had to </span>
  <em>do</em>
  <span> something, had to— Abruptly, he stood up.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“I assure you, I've no intention of allowing Mr Hanson to reap the benefits of our hospitality,” he said, with a twisted smirk that faded as soon as it had come. He threw back his brandy in one swallow, setting the glass back down onto the table. “You need to rest. Both of you.”</p>
<p class="western">“An' do 'ee not?” Demelza asked softly, her head tilted to one side. As ever, she was all too astute to his moods.</p>
<p class="western">“I think I shall watch over George for a while,” he said. If there was one thing he would not be able to do with all those thoughts whirling about in his head, it was rest. “God knows Prudie has probably fallen asleep already.”</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>And with that, he turned and headed out of the room before either of them could protest. He could feel their eyes burning into his back even once he was out of sight, but he ignored the sensation. Instead, he focused on climbing the stairs—a task which, as it turned out, required his complete attention. Tiredness had made his limbs sluggish and unresponsive, and the early morning light, now streaming through the window on the landing, left weird spots and shadows in his vision, so that he was not quite sure where he was meant to be placing his feet. Eventually, he reached the top of the stairs and dragged himself along to the door behind which the injured George lay, but it was not only exhaustion which was slowing him down now. There was a niggle of fear in the back of his mind, one which did not want to see what awaited him on the other side of the door, did not want to see that George had worsened somehow, and that Prudie had failed to notice, or— But that wouldn't do. He, Captain Ross Poldark, was no coward who was afraid to face the sight of an injured man. And so, he took a deep, steadying breath, opened the door, and walked purposefully into the room.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">The sight that met him was less distressing, but far more disorientating than he had imagined, largely due to the fact that the worries and fears at the back of his mind were suddenly replaced by an odd mixture of surprise and ill-placed amusement as he laid eyes upon Prudie. As it turned out, he had been unfair to suggest that she had fallen asleep, for she was watching over George really quite rigorously. That is, if when Dwight had asked her to watch over his patient, he had meant her to do so, not in the manner of one who keeps an eye on the condition of a grievously injured man, but as one who had been put in a cage with a sleeping tiger that might wake at any moment with a sudden inclination to maul them all in their beds. Instead of settling at George's bedside, she had put the chair against the far wall beside the window, and was regarding their unexpected guest with a look of wide-eyed suspicion on her face, as if he might leap up from his pain-induced stupor the moment her back was turned and do something dastardly. Her expression of relief on seeing him enter the room was palpable.</p>
<p class="western">“Cap'ain Ross,” she breathed. “There 'an't been any change, far as I can tell.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross nodded.</p>
<p class="western">“Thank you, Prudie,” he said. “Go and get some rest. I shall watch over him.”</p>
<p class="western">“Thank 'ee, Cap'ain.”</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>Without further ado, she shot up from her seat and hurried out of the room as fast has her legs could carry her. Ross watched her go, the brief amusement faded away as he turned back to the sight of George lying on the bed. He looked worse, somehow, in the harsh light of dawn, the waxy whiteness of his skin and the too-thin hollows of his cheeks thrown into sharp relief where the firelight had softened them out. But then, perhaps he just noticed it more, now that he had the time to look. He seemed so very small, dressed in Ross' ill-fitting gown, too broad on his shoulders and too long on his arms, so that only the tips of his fingers were peeking out from under the cuffs. It was like seeing a child sleeping in their parents' clothes, and if Ross hadn't already been disturbed by the sight of his long-time rival so frail and vulnerable, </span>
  <em>that</em>
  <span> thought would have surely made him so.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>With a quiet scowl, he turned away and picked up the rickety old chair from the wall and carrying it back over to the bed, settling himself down as best he could. It was uncomfortable, but that was just as well—no risk of falling asleep in it when he needed to stay awake. It creaked, unfortunately, and rather loudly at that, but then, the noise in this house was usually enough to wake the dead. Dead. Dead, dead, waking, lost, </span>
  <em>dying</em>
  <span>. But good God, the man was so unnaturally pale. Like a ghost. It occurred to him that, if George were to die here, he would probably haunt Nampara until he ceased to exist, just to spite him, and a sharp, nigh on hysterical cry of laughter bubbled up from his throat before he could stop it.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“Why did you do it?” he asked, his voice oddly hoarse, not just from tiredness.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>But George had no answer for him. How could he have, when all he could do was lie there, white and still, the only movement the ragged rise and fall of his chest as he slept? Yet even as he stared down at him, desperate to know, Ross wondered if it would change anything if it did. There were some things that just made it impossible to continue hating a man, and having one's life saved, no matter the reason, was one of them.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter: The Poldarks and Enyses speculate over what happened, and Cary demonstrates his A+ child-minding skills and pays a visit to Nampara.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Cary argues with Valentine over George's disappearance and pays a visit to Nampara, whilst the Poldarks and Enyses speculate over what happened.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So it's a day late but this chapter got way, way longer than I expected it to be. I was originally going to have a scene from Dwight's POV in here as well but it was already getting close to 7000 words and I had to stop somewhere, so I've pushed that back to the next chapter. Anyway, sorry for the slight delay, and I hope you all enjoy it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">“Uncle Cary, where is Papa?”</p>
<p class="western">“Hellfire and damnation” Cary Warleggan muttered from where he was stood, arms folded, staring down at the fire crackling in the grate of the parlour. When they had spotted the dubious activities of Ross Poldark from the clifftops that day, he had thought that they had finally, <em>finally, </em>found their way to victory against the cursed man. In the cold light of that winter’s morning, however, he found that—far from the triumph he had envisioned—not only had George, after running off to Nampara in the middle of the night, vanished off the face of the earth, but also that that unfortunate event had once again put him in the unenviable position of having to deal with the nigh endless pestering of his nephew’s little brat of a son. Turning around, he saw Valentine standing in the middle of the room, fixing him with a determined stare to which he had become all too accustomed in the wake of George’s illness. He sighed sharply through his nose.</p>
<p class="western">“Where is Papa?,” the boy repeated when he received no answer to his first question. “I wanted to speak to him, but he hasn't come down to breakfast.”</p>
<p class="western">Cary let out a growl of frustration, not bothering to disguise it from the child. Had he known the answer to that, he himself would have been sitting down to eat his fill at the breakfast table, unconcerned, rather than treading the parlour rug into disrepair, hoping, each time he turned back to the window, that he would see the slim form of his nephew riding, unharmed, up the driveway. He was of half a mind to tell the boy exactly that, but he had enough good sense—and knowledge of Valentine’s temperament—to realise that it would have done little to get him to go away.</p>
<p class="western">“You can't speak with him now, boy,” he said instead. “He is away from home.”</p>
<p class="western">
  <em>'Away from home', </em>
  <span>his own thoughts sneered back at him. </span>
  <em>How polite a phrase for 'possibly dead in a ditch somewhere', or 'thrown down a mine', or 'tossed over the cliffs for the ocean to swallow him whole—'”</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“But why?,” Valentine spoke up again, stubborn. “Where is he?”</p>
<p class="western">“Somewhere where he is not being burdened by the endless questions of nosy little brats,” Cary snapped, trying his best to push the lurid imaginings out of his mind. “Go and bother Bessie if you must. I am busy.”</p>
<p class="western">After all, he thought, George had left very late last night, and it might well have been the case that, all having gone to plan, he had been obliged to stay at Nampara until morning, and had yet to return. Somehow, as the images of the ugly look on Hanson's countenance as he had left the evening before—and that of the fierce determination on George's—flickered in his mind's eye, he rather doubted it was. But if it were, he resolved to give the damned little fool a scuff about the ear at the very least when he returned.</p>
<p class="western">If he returned.</p>
<p class="western">God <em>damn.</em></p>
<p class="western">“You aren't doing anything expect pacing about the parlour,” Valentine argued, and with another surge of frustration that would have had him tearing his hair out in the days when he still had any, Cary noted that he had not, despite his instructions, moved an inch from his spot in the middle of the room, what little that could be seen of his brow beneath his unruly mop of curls marred by a frown that was part worried, part mutinous. “And I don't think you know where he is.”</p>
<p class="western">Cary snarled. Why the sheer, blunt nerve of the child—</p>
<p class="western">“Don't be absurd, you cheeky little—!” he barked, ready to give the boy a piece of his mind, but he was cut resolutely off.</p>
<p class="western">“I heard you arguing last night,” Valentine said, glaring at him. “Papa said he was going to Nampara. Why hasn't he come back yet?”</p>
<p class="western">And was that not the very question that had been plaguing him ever since he had woken that morning to find George still missing. Where was he? Why had he not returned? No matter how he tried to reassure himself, a thousand possible answers were whirling through his head, each one so horrible that, caught up in the thought of them as he was, he barely even registered that Valentine had just admitted to eavesdropping on them the previous night. Perhaps Hanson, furious at his betrayal, had attacked him. Or Poldark himself, having seen his long-standing enemy enter the fray and thinking him ill-intentioned. Or maybe Poldark had already been dead and dealt with by the time George arrived, and the General had overpowered and shot him, or slit his throat, or whatever it was that such men did to those who interfered with their plans. He felt faintly sick. God curse it, why had he ever let him go? He should have had him dragged up to his chamber and locked in for the night, sane or no, his own guilt and discomfort be damned. George would have been furious with him, no doubt, but at least he would have been safe.</p>
<p class="western">“That,” he said through clenched teeth—damn and blast it, why would the little nuisance not leave him alone?, “is none of your concern—”</p>
<p class="western">“Why?” the child retorted angrily, before he could even finish chastising him. Cary wanted to yell. George would never have questioned him in such a manner as a child—indeed, even the slightest hint of anger on his part had often been enough to have him scampering away to hide—so why, good God, <em>why</em>, would his blasted little brat not do the same?</p>
<p class="western">“If you ask that one more time,” he growled, marching up to the boy and brandishing a threatening finger in front of his nose, “I will be forced to tell you what happens to little boys who say 'why' too much. Now go and eat your breakfast.”</p>
<p class="western">Valentine, however, did not appear much impressed by the threat. His dark brown eyes narrowed, fixed on the finger in front of him with a disturbingly familiar look of disdain that seemed out of place on his round, childish face. It was, Cary realised, an exact replica of the expression his father reserved for the likes of Ross Poldark.</p>
<p class="western">“I don't want to eat my breakfast,” he said, stamping his foot in hard on the floor in a manner which, had said father been present, he would likely have been chided for as being ungentlemanly. “I <em>want</em> to know where <em>Papa </em>is!”</p>
<p class="western">His voice was growing rapidly louder in his anger, and Cary foresaw that, should he not take action now, the argument would devolve into a shouting match for which his already frayed nerves would not thank him. And so it was that, fed up and fast losing patience, he simply grabbed Valentine by the shoulders and corralled him back into the hall and to the dining table, where his half-eaten bowl of porridge sat, fast cooling and abandoned.</p>
<p class="western">“Sit” he said.</p>
<p class="western">“<em>No!”</em></p>
<p class="western">“<em>Sit!”</em><span> he repeated.</span></p>
<p class="western">There seemed to be something sufficiently dangerous in his tone that Valentine actually complied, but only with extreme reluctance. Something in the way he sat there, arms folded, glaring mutinously up at him, told him that, though he may be sitting now, he—Cary—would not enjoy the consequences of it. It suddenly occurred to him that he had just put a cross Valentine in range of a number of potential missiles, which he knew from experience the child was unlikely to balk in employing. Porridge, for example. Grey, pasty, lukewarm porridge which might at any moment be catapulted his way.</p>
<p class="western">“Don't you even think about it” he growled low in warning.</p>
<p class="western">Valentine stared back at him, unmoving. They stared and stared, until Cary broke his gaze with a scowl, looking about for the nursemaid, who was stood to one side, doing her utmost to impersonate a stretch of the wall.</p>
<p class="western">“Bessie,” he barked. “Make sure that he eats all his food. And see to it that he does not disturb me again.”</p>
<p class="western"><span>Bessie gave a little bob and a soft “yessir”. With a sharp nod, Cary made to depart to the parlour once more—if nothing else but to remove himself from the line of fire—though not without a sour glance towards the dearly departed Elizabeth, where her portrait hung beside the door leading from the hall. </span>The whelp's wilfulness surely must have come from her. It was true that George could often be stubborn and wilful himself (something which had greatly irked Penrose when he had explained the need to use more <em>robust—</em><span>which he would absolutely not think of right now), but he had never been so openly defiant as a child, and certainly not towards his guardians. Personally, he thought the boy had been overly-indulged—Francis' lad had been overly attached to his mother and he had grown up to be a brat of rather impressive proportions, after all. Having said that, though, he could hardly claim that George was much stricter a disciplinarian than his late wife when it came to his children.</span></p>
<p class="western">“Uncle Cary?”</p>
<p class="western">Cary bit back a groan. He had barely even managed to reach the doorway and still the little brat would not let him be.</p>
<p class="western">“What?,” he scowled, whirling back around to face him. “What is it?”</p>
<p class="western">He fixed the boy with a stern gaze, but there was something he saw in Valentine’s face that had him frowning in what a charitable—and as far as Cary would have been concerned had he been present to hear such an opinion, deeply mistaken—person might have described as a worried manner. He was still angry and recalcitrant, yes, but there was something else in his expression—something frightened and uncertain that he hadn't quite yet learnt to hide.</p>
<p class="western">“Uncle Cary,” he said again, and Cary thought he detected a slight wobble to his voice that had him inwardly cringing even more than his defiance had. “Have the bad men done something to Papa?”</p>
<p class="western">Cary fought back a flinch with all his might. A horrible image of his nephew lying in some unknown dark hole, covered with red, congealing blood, eyes blank and glassy, flashed through his mind, but he forced it down. Carefully schooling his features so that his own fears would not seep through into his expression, he looked Valentine right in the eye and forced himself to speak.</p>
<p class="western">“What bad men?” he said, as if he didn't know exactly to whom it was that the child was referring, as if that very possibility hadn't been what had had had him pacing about the parlour in a frenzy ever since he had woken. Valentine, however, did not seem convinced, for the look he sent him in return was both deeply cross and far too withering to sit naturally on the features of a child so young.</p>
<p class="western">“The bad men that were here last night,” he replied. “You and Papa were arguing about them. I already told you that I heard you.”</p>
<p class="western">Cary glared. Even when he was verging on upset, the boy still could not suppress the urge to show disrespect. He should have just walked out of the room and be done with it. But then, he would probably just have followed him again. What he would do to give the brat the hiding he deserved, but George, he knew, would have been furious with him, and so he swallowed down his anger as best he could.</p>
<p class="western">“Eat” he snapped.</p>
<p class="western">He nodded his head sharply towards the still untouched porridge. It would be unpleasantly cold by now, but really, it was the child's own fault for letting it cool. Valentine, though, didn't even cast the merest glance at it. He simply stared right back at him, and shook his head violently from side to side, so that his already messy curls flew even further out of place. For a moment, Cary was inexplicably reminded of the way in which his old hound, Ambrose, had used to shake the water from his shaggy coat after a foray into the sea, before he noticed that, though Valentine’s jaw was clenched tight, there was a distinct tremble to his lip which sent a spark of panic rising suddenly into his chest. Damn and blast, please say that he would not cry. He could not abide wailing children. George, he had always been able to scold out of it, and he had soon learnt not to do it, but somehow, Cary suspected, the same would not work for his son. And in that case, what <em>could</em> he do to stop him?</p>
<p class="western">“Do you think I would let anybody into the house if I thought there was a risk that they might hurt somebody here?” he said with a sigh, attempting more to appeal to reason than to comfort, but unfortunately, it seemed to do little to appease Valentine.</p>
<p class="western">“You let that man in when Papa was ill,” he argued, and his voice was most definitely shaking now. “You let <em>him</em> hurt Papa.”</p>
<p class="western">Cary scowled, turning sharply away. First George, and now his wretched son. Were both of them determined have the shadow of Penrose hang over his head like a cloud for the rest of his life?</p>
<p class="western">“Dr Penrose was not a bad man,” he retorted, with a conviction that, even as he forced away the memory of watching his nephew, limp and pained and vulnerable, being shackled tight to his own bed, he wasn't entirely sure he believed. “He—”</p>
<p class="western">“He hurt Papa,” Valentine interrupted, with a fierce simplicity that only a child could achieve. “He was a bad man.”</p>
<p class="western">Cary turned back to look at him and, feeling his heart sink to somewhere in the region of his stomach, realised that he was on the verge of crying, tears shining in his dark eyes, though he had not yet let them fall.</p>
<p class="western">“The bad man who was here...,” he spoke again, and this time, his voice was surprisingly small. “He wanted to hurt Uncle Ross. What if he hurt Papa too?”</p>
<p class="western">It was Cary's instinct to snap at him not to be so foolish, but his own whirling thoughts stopped him. After all, he could hardly claim it to be so foolish a thought, else he would not have been entertaining the notion himself. He was fully aware that Hanson and Merceron were dangerous men. They had had Despard hanged because he defied them. They had had Poldark thrown down a mine and then plotted to have him murdered by the French because he had supported the man. They had even had that little dog of the Enys woman's poisoned because she had helped to besmirch their reputations. What they would do to an ally who had betrayed them, he did not know, but he doubted that it would be anything good. Suddenly, he was horribly aware of how little he knew, and he could no longer bear it. Could no longer bear the thought of going back to stand at that blasted window waiting for something to happen, whilst he was pestered with endless questions that he could not answer. He had to know for certain what had happened, no matter how terrible the news that awaited him was.</p>
<p class="western">“Fine, fine,” he growled, half to himself as much to Valentine. “I am going to Nampara! Now will you eat?”</p>
<p class="western">“No,” Valentine said, his voice suddenly firmer, though the tears had not quite dissipated. “I'm going to come with you.”</p>
<p class="western">He had already slipped halfway out of his chair, but Cary strode forward and, taking him roughly by the shoulders, pushed him down again.</p>
<p class="western">“No, you are not,” he said. “You, young man, are going to sit here and eat your breakfast or so help me I will—!”</p>
<p class="western">Valentine cut him off with another of his defiant looks, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. Shouting at the boy would achieve nothing, no matter how satisfying he might have found it.</p>
<p class="western">“Just stay here and wait,” he sighed. “<em>Patiently</em>. I will return soon enough. Bessie, make sure that he does not go running off.”</p>
<p class="western">Another bob and a “yessir”, and he was already striding out into the hall, not daring to look back lest the boy be encouraged to scamper after him. He grabbed his coat, hat and gloves and donned them without care, then wrenched open the door and stepped out into the weak morning sun, marching off in search of his horse. He did not yet know what it was he would find at Nampara, but whatever sight he might have to steel himself for, there would be Hell to pay. The only question was: who was it that would be doing the paying?</p>
<p class="western"> </p>
<hr/>
<p class="western"> </p>
<p class="western">The fire was crackling low in the grate when Ross was jolted out of the light doze he had been slipping into by the sound of a crow cawing in the tree outside. He groaned—his neck and back were aching from the unnatural position he had been contorted into by the rickety old chair—and rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes, trying to keep himself awake. He couldn't fall asleep now, not when it had been stressed to him how important it was that George's condition be carefully watched over.</p>
<p class="western">As much as he might have wished it, George had not so far proved illuminating in the matter of his unlikely intervention and the cause behind it, but Ross was not so much of a fool as to have thought that he would be. The man had not even so much as shifted in his sleep in however long he had been sitting there—how much time had past since he had left the parlour to watch over him, he really had no idea. Exhausted and weakened by pain and blood-loss though he was, however, George made a surprisingly good companion, as he tried to make sense of his rioting, tumultuous thoughts. His silent presence was somehow comforting to him—no pressure to talk, to plan, to take action. And perhaps it was a little more than that as well. Even white and wan and as close to death as he looked, being able to watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, assured of the fact that, despite all, he still lived, he felt he could cling a little tighter to the hope that he would pull through and survive. Elsewhere, in other company, he thought, it would have been like trying to hold onto smoke with his bare hands.</p>
<p class="western">Smoke. Smoke from a fire. There was a slight chill in the room, the flames, he remembered, nearly dying in the hearth. That would not do. Dwight had wanted George kept warm, and there was a definite bite to the draught that was beginning to creep in through the window—there was gooseflesh on the bare skin of his forearms, he noticed, the hairs standing right on end. With an enormous effort, he forced himself up from the chair and, taking ahold of the poker, mindful not to make too much noise, stoked the fire back into life. The flames danced higher, and he couldn't help but stare at them, transfixed, as they flickered back and forth before his eyes.</p>
<p class="western">He was too dazed and tired to take note of the footsteps padding along the corridor outside , and so when he heard the door creak slowly open behind him, he gave a violent start, whirling about to see who had entered. It was Dwight. Though still pale and rather grey, he seemed a little better, as if he had caught a little sleep, but the look in his pale eyes was still grim and sober.</p>
<p class="western">“How is he?” he asked softly.</p>
<p class="western">Ross shook his head.</p>
<p class="western">“No change,” he said. “Neither for better, nor for worse, as far as I can tell.”</p>
<p class="western">Dwight nodded thoughtfully, heading over to the bed where his patient lay, motionless, like a corpse awaiting burial.</p>
<p class="western">“That is encouraging,” he replied, though Ross did not think from his tone that he sounded particularly encouraged. “As long as he does not take a turn for the worse, we might hope that he will recover fully.”</p>
<p class="western">He was still nodding to himself, as if he were trying to convince himself of his own words. Carefully, he reached out and took one of George's limp hands in a gentle grasp, pulling back the cuff of his sleeve so that he could check his pulse. Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed convulsively.</p>
<p class="western">“You should get some rest, Ross,” he said with a frown, his focus still fixed firmly on George. “Last night was as much of a strain on you as it was on the rest of us.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross stared at him tiredly, barely registering what he was saying. He had let go of George's wrist, and was now gently thumbing back each of his eyelids in turn, his lips pursed in concentration. The sleeves of his shirt, he noticed, were clean and white, whereas the night before, they had been soaked red with blood. Ross frowned. The only men's clothes he had at Nampara other than his own were some old things of his father's, but the shirt Dwight was wearing was not near loose enough on his slim frame to have been borrowed from him. Where then, had he got it?</p>
<p class="western">“Caroline is here,” Dwight said, as if reading his mind—though Ross knew his expression was probably open enough in his exhaustion that his friend would only need working eyes, as opposed to the power of telepathy, to determine what he was thinking. He had turned to look over his shoulder when he didn't reply, and was frowning at him in concern. “I had a note sent to Nampara to inform her of what happened, and she was kind enough to bring some clean clothes for me.”</p>
<p class="western">There was a pause.</p>
<p class="western">“Jeremy and Clowance are here too.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross gave a strange jolt, the sound of his two children's names pulling him sharply out of his stupor as if he had been struck by lightning.</p>
<p class="western">“Jeremy and Clowance?,” he asked, his voice suddenly very rough. “Are they—?”</p>
<p class="western">But he didn't quite know what it was he wanted to ask. Whether they were alright, safe and unharmed? Whether they were hurt, upset or scared by what had happened? Or maybe—he swallowed—whether they were angry as their mother surely was, after how he had seemed to behave? Luckily, Dwight came to his rescue as he floundered, and spoke up in his stead.</p>
<p class="western">“Caroline brought them back home,” he said. “They were really very worried. Geoffrey Charles has taken them down to the beach for the time being. That should at least cheer them up a little. Besides, we wanted them kept away from Hanson whilst we dealt with him.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross had no idea what to feel at that. Guilt that they had been worried? Disappointment that they were not here for him to see? Perhaps dread at having to face them and their unknown reactions later. If there were one thing he did feel in bounds, however, it was relief. Relief that they were safe and cared for, and that the others had the sense to keep them away from the loathsome Hanson. It occurred to him that he could no longer hear the man grousing, though he faintly recalled there having been some commotion in the corridor outside earlier on.</p>
<p class="western">“Dealt with?” he asked, wondering exactly what that meant. He suspected, though, that the reality would probably disappoint the wilder fancies of his imagination.</p>
<p class="western">“Sent back to his lodgings in Truro,” Dwight amended, somewhat confirming Ross' suspicions. “He complained the whole time, of course, but at least he has gone.”</p>
<p class="western">“Yes,” Ross replied with a scowl. “Gone right back to his brother so they can plot our demise, no doubt. We would have been better served had we smothered him with a pillow.”</p>
<p class="western">It was not an entirely serious suggestion, but Dwight didn't seem to find much humour in it. He turned about to face him fully, the frown on his face morphing from concerned to a little cross.</p>
<p class="western">“You agreed earlier that it would be best for him to sent back to Truro to recover” he reminded him, sternly.</p>
<p class="western">Ross scoffed.</p>
<p class="western">“I agreed that I didn't want him in my house,” he said darkly. “As far as I'm concerned, the only favour he's earned from me is to be tossed on the midden and see if that heals him.”</p>
<p class="western">The crow in the tree outside cawed again, as if in agreement. Dwight, on the other hand, crossed his arms in front of his chest and clenched his jaw, eyes darting briefly to the wall and back with an expression of deep frustration with which Ross had become increasingly acquainted ever since Ned Despard had barrelled his way back into their lives.</p>
<p class="western">“What other course of action was there, Ross?,” he said, and there was a hint of annoyance in his voice that he was too tired and overwrought to suppress. “It behoves you to ensure your actions are beyond reproach in this matter, if only to prevent us from being painted as the villains of the piece.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross frowned. He opened his mouth—to say what, he did not entirely know—but one look at his friend's face had him reconsidering his words. Already, Dwight seemed to be flagging, his eyes dull and tired, with dark bags beneath them like bruises.</p>
<p class="western">“How much sleep did you get?” he asked suspiciously. If Dwight had been awake to deal with Hanson, then he couldn't have rested for more than perhaps a couple of hours, surely.</p>
<p class="western">Dwight shook his head.</p>
<p class="western">“More than you.” He settled down into the chair beside George's bed, wincing slightly as it creaked. “Go, Ross. I shall be here to watch over him. You shan't do him or yourself any good by driving yourself past the point of exhaustion.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross rather thought he would have been better served to follow his own advice, but he had just enough sense left in his sluggish brain not to say it aloud. Dwight was not to be persuaded—that much was clear—but then, neither was he. He conceded enough to leave the room as instructed, but despite his exhaustion weighing on him so heavily now that it seemed as if his limbs had turned to lead, he still balked at going to his bedchamber to sleep. Who knew, after all, how the events of the night would resurface in his dreams? And so, instead of heading down the corridor to rest as advised, he made for the stairs, intending, vaguely, to make his way through the decanter of brandy in the parlour as he waited for something—anything—to happen.</p>
<p class="western">The sight that met him when he stepped through the parlour door, however, instantly made him regret his decision. Demelza, Caroline and Prudie were all huddled together around the table, and had been deep in whispered conversation right up until they heard the creak of the door opening behind them. As he entered, they cut themselves off abruptly, swivelling about in their chairs to stare at him, each with a worried, questioning look upon their face. Fighting not to squirm under the combined force of their gaze, Ross was suddenly reminded of why he had so wanted to be alone before.</p>
<p class="western">“How is he?” Demelza asked. Her blue eyes were alight with concern, though for whom exactly, he did not quite know.</p>
<p class="western">Ross shook his head. It was the second time he had been asked that this morning, but this time, for some reason, he couldn't quite unstick his throat to give her an answer. He staggered over to the table, brandy decanter quite forgotten, and, sinking into a chair beside them, put his head in his hands.</p>
<p class="western">“Is-is it so bad?” That was Caroline, uncharacteristically tentative for a woman usually so bold. It was that, perhaps, that allowed him to mine some deep part of him for the elusive answer that seemed caught on the tip of his tongue. He raised his head from his hands to look at her.</p>
<p class="western">“He isn't worse than he was,” he said shortly. “Dwight says that that is encouraging.”</p>
<p class="western">Unfortunately, however, he had not been any more successful in sounding encouraging than Dwight had been for him. Caroline, it was clear, had seen something of his own fears in his face, for he saw something very strange flicker in her eyes, a dark shadow passing across her wan features. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought it to be something akin to guilt, but he dismissed it as a flight of imagination, brought on, no doubt, by the lethargy that had settled over him like a tonne of bricks. After all, what would Caroline have to feel guilty about?</p>
<p class="western">“Did—?” She faltered. “Did he give any indication of why...?”</p>
<p class="western">She trailed off. There it was again—that why, why, why that each one of them couldn't help but ask, but to which none knew the answer. Ross clenched his jaw, tight.</p>
<p class="western">“He didn't exactly have much of a chance to explain himself whilst we were rooting about his innards, no” he said, more tersely than the question had warranted. The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them.</p>
<p class="western">“<em>Ross!”</em> Demelza hissed, her eyes flashing.</p>
<p class="western">Caroline had gone very white, and it suddenly occurred to him that, quite apart from not wanting to hear gruesome details, she—was? had been?—an almost friend of George's, in an odd sort of way. The realisation made him feel all the more wretched, and a strained silence began to stretch uncomfortably out between them.</p>
<p class="western">“'Tis awful strange though,” Demelza spoke up again, after several excruciating minutes of avoiding each other's gazes, mouths clamped tightly shut. “What could 'ave possessed 'im t' do 't? An' t' put hisself in such danger... 'Tis hardly...well...”</p>
<p class="western">She lapsed into silence, but nonetheless, each and every one of them heard what she had left unsaid.</p>
<p class="western">“It is hardly,” Ross finished for her, his eyes fixed broodingly on a burn on the wood of the table before him, “what we have come to expect of George.”</p>
<p class="western">But even as he said it, a memory flashed before his eyes—of George, afraid, clearly, but steadfast, pistol in hand as they stared each other down, ready to defend his wife and unborn child from the raging mob surrounding them. <em>Perhaps</em>, he thought, a deep frown drawing his brows together, <em>we do not expect such things from George because we haven't been looking in the right places.</em></p>
<p class="western">Silence fell between them once more, but this time, it had barely had a chance to settle before it was interrupted by a loud and angry pounding on the door outside. The four of them started, alarmed by the sudden clamour.</p>
<p class="western">“Judas, who could that be?!” breathed Demelza, her eyes wide.</p>
<p class="western">“Th' hordes o' Hell come t' tek us all, by th' sounds of 't” Prudie grumbled in reply.</p>
<p class="western">
  <span>She stood, reluctantly, and headed out to the door, muttering to herself all the way. Ross heard it creak on its hinges as she opened it, followed by an unpleasantly familiar snarling voice that had him leaping up from his chair so violently that he almost overturned it. </span>
  <em>The hordes of Hell?, </em>
  <span>he thought to himself wryly as he heard swift footsteps in the hallway and Cary Warleggan burst in through the door like a charging bull, a horrified Prudie scurrying along behind, his hat and gloves in hand. </span>
  <em>More like the Devil himself. Well, you wanted something to happen, and now it has. I suppose I must be more careful what I wish for.</em>
</p>
<p class="western">“Where is he?!,” the man snarled, pale eyes flashing dangerously as he stepped into the room, fixing Ross with a fierce glare. “Where is my nephew?!”</p>
<p class="western">Ross gritted his teeth, bracing himself for confrontation. He had no love for either Warleggan, but though it was George with whom he often clashed, he found Cary, objectively speaking, to be far more objectionable—in temperament if nothing else. The man was rough, rude and acerbic, and blatantly loathed him, and he was not sure whether, in his current state, he could endure the man's anger without lashing out in return.</p>
<p class="western">“Sir George is resting at the moment,” he replied, attempting to remain calm. “I can assure you, however, that he is in good hands. Dr Enys is tending to him.”</p>
<p class="western">Cary scowled.</p>
<p class="western">“And why, pray, does he need tending to?” he said.</p>
<p class="western">There was a movement behind him, and next thing he knew, Demelza was standing at his side. They exchanged an uneasy glance. With everything that had happened, neither of them had thought to inform the elder Warleggan of his nephew’s injury. How he would react to finding out that George had been shot, Ross had no idea, but he was hardly likely to jump for joy at the news. Well, at least the old man’s ire might be directed away from them and towards Merceron and his loathsome brother, he considered—so long as he should be inclined to listen in full to what had happened, that was.</p>
<p class="western">“Forgive us, sir, but have ‘ee not heard?,” Demelza asked, regarding their unexpected and very much unwanted guest with an uneasy frown. “Your nephew were shot. By Ralph Hanson,” she added as Cary’s face turned thunderous, no doubt suspecting Ross himself to be the most likely culprit for George’s injury.</p>
<p class="western">Ross had expected something akin to surprise from the man, shock or disbelief, or even—and this was the scenario he had been bracing himself for—outright denial. But Cary looked neither shocked, nor disbelieving, and he had certainly made no move to deny anything. Indeed, if he seemed to be anything, it was purely and simply angry.</p>
<p class="western">“And how am I supposed to have heard?!,” he sneered. “Perhaps you expected the birds to have twittered the news in my ear with the dawn chorus!”</p>
<p class="western">There were no questions posed of why Hanson might have wished to shoot George, or even why he might have been at Nampara to be shot in the first place. Slow and sluggish though his thoughts were, Ross could only come to the conclusion that he must have known something of what his nephew had intended to do, if not why. This realisation, however, was buried down to the back of his mind as a spark of temper, faded to embers with exhaustion and confusion, started to burn hot in the pit of his chest. The man's displeasure was understandable, yes, but he would not have him speak to his wife in such a manner.</p>
<p class="western">“We hadn't had the chance to inform you,” he said, firmly. “It was of utmost importance that George be operated on immediately—”</p>
<p class="western">“Yes, and no doubt in the chaos, it slipped your mind,” Cary interrupted, his voice rising by degrees. “I suppose he is actually alive, or did he pass away in the night and that just happened to slip your mind too?!”</p>
<p class="western">The memory of gunshots, of pained cries and the smell of blood, and of George lying deathly still on the bed, white and wan, began to seep, unwelcome, back into Ross' mind, and all of a sudden, that spark of temper in his chest erupted into an inferno.</p>
<p class="western">“Forgive me, Mr Warleggan,” he growled through tightly clenched teeth, trying, with all his might, not to shout, “if I was not entirely abreast of the situation after holding down your screaming nephew for God knows how long so that we might remove a bullet from his gut!”</p>
<p class="western">Despite his best efforts, his voice was beginning to rise too, but he felt a hand on his arm, distracting him momentarily from his anger. <em>Demelza</em><span>. Before he could turn towards her, however, Cary snarled in fury, and, in three large strides, they were suddenly nose to nose, eyeball to eyeball. Though his instinct was to recoil, Ross refused to back away.</span></p>
<p class="western">“And of course how terrible that must have been for you,” he hissed sardonically. “Or perhaps you wished for time to revel in the moment. Did it satisfy you to see him brought so low? You've enough hate for him, after all. I imagine you'd drink to providence had he died.”</p>
<p class="western">Ross opened his mouth to tell him that, if he were to find satisfaction in anything at all in that moment, it would be in punching him on the damned nose—as he richly deserved for making such insinuations. Perhaps if he managed to break it, he thought, it would make it as crooked as the rest of him. Before he could speak, however, he felt Demelza's grip tighten on his arm. He turned to look at her. Her gaze was imploring, and her brow was crumpled in a worried little frown. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, and, taking a deep breath, he nodded back at her, trying to calm himself down.</p>
<p class="western">“You may imagine all you wish,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. “But you are mistook, sir, if you believe me to be so twisted as to delight in George's injury. Perhaps it amuses <em>you</em><span> to think of your enemies in such agony, but it is not my custom to wish harm upon others.”</span></p>
<p class="western">
  <em>Unless they really deserve it, </em>
  <span>a traitorous little voice whispered in his head. </span>
  <em>Such as the likes of Hanson.</em>
  <span> But he barely had time to think on it before Cary scoffed loudly at his words, his lip curled in a sneer.</span>
</p>
<p class="western">“Is that so?,” he growled, like an angry bear that had been successfully poked out of hibernation and was longing to take a swipe at the source of its temper. “In that case, what precisely did you wish upon that customs officer you once beat half to death? Or upon my nephew when you tried to shove his head into a roaring grate? But perhaps you simply intended to give him a nice, rosy complexion. And the customs officer, no doubt, would only have benefited from having his limbs... rearranged.”</p>
<p class="western">“I—” Ross tried to protest, but Cary cut across him him sharply.</p>
<p class="western">“<em>No!,” </em><span>he barked, teeth bared. “George may have become yet another in a long line of people ready to throw themselves in danger to save your sorry hide, but I assure you that I have no intention of fawning at your feet or comforting you with platitudes when I have spent this whole morning and the better part of the night not knowing where in God's name my nephew was or what had happened to him or if I would find him days later dredged up as </span><em>flotsam</em><span> on a beach somewhere—”</span></p>
<p class="western">He cut himself off, turning sharply away, his jaw clenched. Ross stared, seeing something dark flash in his eyes, something almost...almost... In a moment, he felt his anger deflate as if it had never been, leaving him feeling oddly hollow.</p>
<p class="western">“I will take you up to see him” he said.</p>
<p class="western">Cary sneered.</p>
<p class="western">“I will take myself up if I have to,” he replied. “I've no care to be accompanied. But I warn you, Poldark, if I so much as suspect that you caused him the slightest harm, I will make your life so wretched that you'll no longer wish to live it.”</p>
<p class="western">And with that, he spun on his heel and marched away before any of them could even tell him where his nephew was, like a bloodhound on the scent of a fox. Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, Ross rushed off after him—though not before he heard Prudie, who had throughout the exchange been glancing between the hat Cary had thrust at her to hang up and the fire in the grate with an expression of utmost disgust, say to the room at large:—</p>
<p class="western">“D'ye suppose Cap'ain Ross would be awful angry if I burnt 't?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter: Cary gets to see George, some Hanson and Merceron, and Demelza spots an alarming development in George's condition.</p>
<p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Cary pays a visit to his nephew's bedside, Hanson and Merceron argue about what to do, and Demelza spots an alarming development in George's condition.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi everyone, thank you for your patience! This chapter ended up getting very long so, along with the "e" on my keyboard breaking, it meant that I couldn't stick to the weekly schedule for this one. Considering how long each of the individual chapters are getting, I'll probably be shifting to updating every two weeks from now on, in order to give myself a bit of breathing space to work on some of my other things as well, depending on how long it takes me to write the next chapter.</p><p>But anyway, I hope you all enjoy this new chapter and that it's worth the wait!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">The sun was rising ever higher and ever brighter in the sky outside, and the only sound which punctuated Dwight's vigil over the wounded George was the crackling of the fire, and the scrabbling of birds upon the tiles of the roof above them. The old house was eerily quiet, its usual brimming activity hushed to the point of near silence, almost as if he had unknowingly stumbled upon the sombre site of a wake. That stillness, so very jarring after the panic and brutality and sheer loudness of surgery, made him long for noise. But no matter how much he listened, he hadn't been able to hear a single thing from the other side of the door. Not since Ross had left—and headed down the stairs by the sounds of it; of course he hadn't followed his advice. Instead, all his straining to hear seemed to achieve was to fill his ears with the sound of his own breathing. Ragged and uneven, it was deafeningly loud.</p><p class="western">Though his ears searched desperately for sound, his eyes were fixed firmly on the fragile figure encased in blankets on the bed. If his breathing was deafeningly loud, George's seemed horribly quiet. He tried to listen for it, tried to hold the sound in his mind—just as he tried to cling to the detached, clinical knowledge that his condition had yet to take any sort of turn for the worse—but it was hard to hold onto such notions whilst battling the memory of catching the man's limp form in his arms, begging, terrified for Ross to break out of his trance and help him. Hard to hold onto the knowledge that he might well have saved his life, that he could still pull through yet, when he had spent the night bringing forth agonised screams from a man whom he had once promised, as he nursed him back to health in the aftermath of the vile Dr Penrose's treatments, that he would never do anything to harm.</p><p class="western">He groaned softly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands as he tried to bring some order to the chaos of his whirling thoughts. When he had seen the familiar slim figure darting into the shadow of the barn door in the pale moonlight, he had scarce known what to think. Something in his thoughts, however, suddenly gave him pause. No, he frowned at himself with a little shake of his head, that was not quite right. He hadn't known whether his supposition was true, but nonetheless he had had one. Indeed, it had been the very thing which had had him dashing so madly after him in time to catch him as he fell, just as it was now the very thing that kept him awake, worrying, worrying, worrying.</p><p class="western">But then, worrying about George had become all too familiar a sensation to him in the past year. Ever since he had seen him, ghost-like, through the window at Nampara, had caught him from falling over that cliff edge and taken him back to Trenwith to discover what had been done to him. He could recall more clearly than ever the look of hopelessness in his eyes, the resigned emptiness in his voice as he asked whether it would even matter had he fallen, and he couldn't help but fear the possibility that some of that melancholic despair—or else the delusion under which he had suffered—had been a driving force of his decision to throw himself into danger that night.</p><p class="western">Once again, he thought, once again he had found him teetering on the edge of an abyss, but this one he couldn't simply pull him back from. George would have to fight tooth and nail for his life, but if he no longer wished to... What would happen then?</p><p class="western">So deep was he tangled in his own thoughts that, when the house suddenly erupted into a cacophony of loud and angry shouts, he almost fell off his chair in shock. He could not hear the words from behind the door, but he need not strain to identify to whom the voices belonged. One was unmistakably Ross—he had heard his raised voice far too often not to recognise it—and the other... Good God, Cary. He had entirely forgotten to inform the man of his nephew's injury, had— He could hear the voices coming closer now, and the sound of footsteps marching up the stairs, and that was all the warning he had before the door to the bedchamber was thrown open and in strode an irate Cary, followed by a scowling Ross.</p><p class="western">For a few seconds, the sight of the unlikely duo seemed so bizarre to his over-tired mind that he briefly considered whether he might have been dreaming. In that moment, Ross took the opportunity to leave without a word, so that Dwight could only direct the firm stare which told him in no uncertain terms to <em>go to bed </em>at his retreating back. As he closed the door behind him, Dwight turned his gaze to Cary. All the fire and anger that he had entered with seemed suddenly drained out of him, and he stood, frozen, in the middle of the room, eyes fixed upon his sleeping nephew. His complexion, pallid as it usually was, had turned bone white.</p><p class="western">“Mr Warleggan” Dwight said. Whether it was to greet him, to catch his attention, or even simply for something to say, he did not know, but either way, Cary paid him no mind. His eyes never wavered from George's frail form as he slowly approached the bed, lowering himself down to a crouch upon its opposite side. He made an odd, jerking, aborted gesture, as if he had made to reach for him, but had thought better of it. The silence stretched out unbearably.</p><p class="western">“Will he live?” he asked after a long while, his voice oddly hoarse, as if he were recovering from a terrible cold.</p><p class="western">Dwight swallowed, fighting the urge to put his head in his hands. How many times had he been asked that now? How many times had he longed to know the answer as each of them seemed to expect he must? In truth, he knew no more than the next man, save for what he hoped the man's current condition might indicate. He tried to cling to that hope—that he might survive yet—for the sake of the others as well as himself, but far more powerful, amidst the memories of hot, viscous blood on his hands and the echoes of screams in his ears, was the dread that he would not. That he would slip away out of reach the moment his back was turned or his eyes were closed and—</p><p class="western">“We must hope that he will” he replied, even as he tried, in vain, to push the dark thoughts out of his mind. No matter how he tried, his tone sorely lacked the comfort he had intended to convey with his words. Cary looked up at him, stony-faced and hard-eyed, and it was clear that he had not for a moment convinced him to hope.</p><p class="western">“I am not a child that needs to be coddled, Doctor,” he said, coldly. “Nor am I some weak-minded fool with whom you might pussyfoot around the truth with meaningless platitudes. If my nephew is going to die, I ask that you tell me.”</p><p class="western">Dwight frowned.</p><p class="western">“If there were no chance of recovery, I would not tell you that there were,” he returned, his voice soft but firm. “There is a chance that he will not...wake, yes, but equally, there is a chance that he will. It is too early so far to say for certain which it is.”</p><p class="western">Cary stared into his eyes for a long time, as if trying to determine the truth of his words. Then, he gave one sharp nod before turning away, jaw clenched. His attention was back on George, on his white face, devoid of even the slightest flicker of expression, to the slight rise and fall of his chest, then to his hands lying limp above the coverlet, almost entirely hidden by the cuffs of Ross' old house gown.</p><p class="western">“What in God's name is he wearing?” he scowled. He reached out—properly this time—and started rolling back the sleeves so that they were no longer obscuring his hands, in a manner a little too rough to be considered gentle, but with far more care than any who knew him would be inclined to credit the old man with possessing. Dwight watched him for a moment, following the movement of his hands with dull, tired eyes.</p><p class="western">“We had to borrow some of Ross' old clothes,” he explained patiently. “His were too...”</p><p class="western"><em>Bloody</em> , his mind supplied. <em>Bloody and ruined.</em> His coat alone had had to be cut away from him so as not to risk jostling him too greatly in their attempts to remove it. Once again, the memory of deep red blood seeping through white cloth—pooling too fast and too greatly over pale skin—flashed before his eyes, but he pushed it away, just in time to see Cary's lips twist in a sneer.</p><p class="western">“How very generous of him” he scoffed, his voice practically dripping with disdain.</p><p class="western">Briefly closing his eyes, Dwight thanked God for bestowing upon him a temper far more even and not nearly so easily roused as that of the likes of Ross or Ned Despard, for if he had, he had no doubt he would have stood no chance of enduring the company of men such as Cary without being drawn into conversation. As it was, however, he simply took in a deep breath, opened his eyes, and spoke once again, his voice calm and steady, though rather cooler than before.</p><p class="western">“Ross bears him no ill will,” he said. “George saved his life. He killed the General.”</p><p class="western">Cary's eyebrows shot up.</p><p class="western">“He did <em>what?!”</em> he cried, and it suddenly occurred to Dwight that he may not have been informed of the ins and outs of what happened. The man's voice had risen dangerously loud, but fortunately, George did not stir at the sudden disturbance.</p><p class="western">“Forgive me, sir—I presumed that Ross had told you what happened,” Dwight replied, careful to keep his own voice hushed. “Might I ask what it is that you have been told?”</p><p class="western">Cary snorted.</p><p class="western">“Only that my nephew was shot by Mr Hanson,” he said sourly. “And not until I had shown up inconveniently on their doorstep demanding to know where he was, might I add.”</p><p class="western">Dwight frowned at him. He could hardly fault Ross and Demelza for not immediately sending word to Cary after the chaos of the night before, not when there had been so many matters to deal with and when he, in the midst of them, had himself forgotten just as they had. However, something else in the man's words had caught his attention, and so it was that it was that, as opposed—perhaps fortunately—to an instinctive need to defend his friends which could well have sparked an argument, upon which he spoke next.</p><p class="western">“You do not seem surprised” he remarked. Cary snorted for a second time, without humour.</p><p class="western">“How could I be, after he dashed off to Nampara with two pistols, determined to foil the man's plans?,” he scowled. “I suspected something of the sort, though of course I couldn't be sure of the perpetrator. I suppose it <em>was </em>Hanson that did it?”</p><p class="western">“It was Hanson that shot him, yes,” Dwight replied, his tone turning from cool to cold. He did not appreciate the insinuation that his friends would lie about such a thing. “After George killed Toussaint, Hanson trained his pistol on him. They shot each other.”</p><p class="western">Cary was silent for a long time as he digested that information. It looked like he was sucking on something particularly sour, like a lemon.</p><p class="western">“And Hanson?” he said eventually.</p><p class="western">“Sent back to Truro, alive, if not entirely well,” Dwight answered him. The old man let out a noise of disdain, the vehemence of which perfectly matched that which Ross had earlier displayed at the fact. What either Cary or Ross would say, had they known that they had the slightest thing in common, he did not know, but he doubted it would be anything good. Or complimentary. “We took the liberty of removing a report we had put together regarding the General's movements and proposed plans from his possession beforehand. I am to understand it that Mr Merceron arranged to have it stolen from the courier on its way to London, so I presume that Sir George and yourself were made aware of its contents through his actions?”</p><p class="western">Cary nodded.</p><p class="western">“Yes, we were shown it,” he said. “Merceron wanted it shown to the General, so that he might dispose of Poldark for them and paint him as a traitor in the process. As you can see, George—,” his eyes darted down towards his motionless nephew, a shadow clouding across his grim features, “—disagreed.”</p><p class="western"><em>And paid the price for it</em>, were the words left unspoken. Dwight lowered his gaze to the bed, to George's fragile form, so thin and wan and barely there. He could feel a lump form in his slowly constricting throat.</p><p class="western">“Say it,” Cary growled, all of a sudden. Startled, Dwight looked up to see his gaze fixed upon him with an unwavering intensity reminiscent of a hawk watching its prey. “I can see it in all of your faces—the question you're burning to ask. But there's little I can do to satisfy your curiosity. I'm damned if I know why he did it.”</p><p class="western">Once again, Dwight frowned. In the sleep-deprived haze that was ever threatening to overcome him, he wondered vaguely whether having to deal with both Cary and Ross respectively might have etched the expression permanently onto his brow, before he managed to gather enough wits about him to push the thought away. He dearly wanted to point out that it was hardly a matter of curiosity when a man's life hung in the balance, but he shoved that urge down too. There was something there, he thought, something not quite right, but he was too tired to place exactly what it was in his mind.</p><p class="western">“Did he give no indication—?”</p><p class="western">“Oh, he gave plenty of indication,” Cary cut him off with a scoff, sharp and vehement. “Indication of why he might object to their plans. Indication of why he might wish to put a stop to them, even. But indication of why in God's name he would wish to run off in the middle of the night and get himself shot for the likes of a worthless wastrel who has never offered him anything but contempt? No, he gave <em>no </em>indication of <em>that.</em>”</p><p class="western">Dwight nodded, more to give himself time to think than anything else. His eyes trailed, unavoidably, back down to his unconscious patient as various thoughts and imaginings whirled about his head at lightning speed despite his exhaustion. That did not much sound like a man caught in the throes of delusion. Indeed, if anything, he seemed to have been lucid, so acutely aware of the urgency of the situation that he had felt backed into drastic action. Nevertheless, the possibility that it were otherwise continued to worry him, and he would never know for sure if he did not ask.</p><p class="western">“Mr Warleggan,” he began, carefully, “I am sorry to ask, but how exactly did Sir George seem that evening—when you saw him last?”</p><p class="western">Cary's eyes flashed dangerously.</p><p class="western">“Sane enough,” he retorted. “Or as sane as one can consider a man about to throw himself headlong into danger.”</p><p class="western">There was an edge of warning to his voice that reminded Dwight all too much of the way he had assured him that George was “completely cured” when he had visited them in London. He was no more convinced by it now than he had been then, and it must have shown upon his face, for Cary narrowed his eyes at him before speaking again.</p><p class="western">“I can assure you, Doctor,” he said, “that the only thing my nephew was suffering from last night was a fit of monumental stubbornness. I tried to stop him but—”</p><p class="western">He cut himself off abruptly, his gaze flickering down to George for a split second, before turning sharply away to stare at the wall. There was an expression of deep discomfort on his face—something which seemed just one step away from guilt. Dwight recognised the expression. It was the very same that he had worn on his face as he had listed the vile treatments his nephew had been forced to endure under the dubious care of the loathsome Penrose.</p><p class="western">“Why didn't you?” he asked, softly.</p><p class="western">Cary scowled, an expression which sat far more naturally on his cruel features when it was not belied by the disquiet in his usually hard eyes.</p><p class="western">“George is not exactly an easy man to stop once he has a conviction in his head.”</p><p class="western"><em>But</em> , Dwight thought, though he did not say, <em>if anyone living could do it, it would probably be you.</em> He wondered what it was that had stopped Cary from hindering George's flight to Nampara. Whatever it was though, it was clear that the man was not willing to say. He had stood up from where he had been crouched beside the bed as he had spoken, turning to face the door with his arms tightly folded. His eyes were fixed firmly on the floor, as if he could no longer bear to look at them, and Dwight, in turn, trained his own gaze on the tense line of his back. The silence stretched out between them.</p><p class="western">“I don't want him here.” Cary was the first to break it, his voice hoarse and gruff. “He wouldn't want to be here.”</p><p class="western">“We must not risk moving him whilst his life hangs in the balance” Dwight warned him warily.</p><p class="western">Cary glowered, though he did not argue. He turned around, back towards the bed, and as his eyes travelled over his nephew's limp form, pale and waxy and corpse-like, Dwight saw a spark of rage begin to burn in them, as if somebody had lit a furnace inside him.</p><p class="western">“They will pay for this” he growled.</p><p class="western">“Ross did not—”</p><p class="western">“Not him,” Cary snapped. “Hanson—,” he veritably spat out the name, “—and his brother too.”</p><p class="western">Dwight swallowed.</p><p class="western">“They will not accept responsibility easily” he said, cautious.</p><p class="western">Cary sneered, like a wolf bearing its teeth, and Dwight was suddenly reminded of why the Warleggans were such a dangerous enemy to have.</p><p class="western">“I don't give a damn if they accept it kicking and screaming,” he growled, “but they <em>will</em> face them. He attacked my nephew—my <em>brother's son—</em>and believe me, I intend to ensure that they regret it to the end of their days.”</p><p class="western"> </p><hr/><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">“Hellfire and damnation!”</p><p class="western">Despite the chill wind which was howling through the streets of Truro outside, the stifling heat of the flames crackling in the grate of the lodgings of one Ralph Hanson and Joseph Merceron—and indeed the beastliness of its current occupants—was enough, perhaps, to justify the comparison between the upper floor of <em>The Red Lion</em> and the Devil's fiery kingdom. That particular exclamation, however—the latest in a long line of angry curses which had been issuing from the direction of the bed for the best part of the day—had been directed, by the former of these men, not to the room at large, but rather towards the injury he had sustained that night in the barn, which he had successfully managed to aggravate as he tried to get himself comfortable on the pillows. He grimaced, which did his already unpleasant countenance no favours, and flopped back onto the bed with a growl.</p><p class="western">“Do you intend to do anything but bemoan that blasted injury until it heals?,” sighed the latter of the room's occupants from where he was stood, staring down through the frosted glass of the window down to the street below. “If so, pray inform me so that I might find accommodation elsewhere for the duration.”</p><p class="western">With his back turned to the bed, he sensed rather than saw his half-brother's scowl. He paid it no mind. A man of weaker temperament might have been inclined to coddle him, but Mr Merceron had not achieved all that he had by indulging in such trifling things as kindness, and he didn't intend to start now.</p><p class="western">“I suppose I would only have myself to blame for expecting some sympathy from my own brother” came the sour reply from behind him. Merceron snorted, turning about to arch an eyebrow in his direction.</p><p class="western">“Half-brother,” he corrected. In several large steps, he had headed over to the decanter at the wall adjacent to the window, and poured himself a large brandy. He would need it, no doubt, for the foreseeable future. “And yes, you would. And you do. If you had handled the General properly rather than letting that trull talk him into playing with swords, you would not be in this situation.”</p><p class="western">Hanson scoffed, though it quickly turned into a wince.</p><p class="western">“And if <em>you</em> had not blindly believed everything that little upstart said about being completely assured of our plan, he would not have been able to scamper off to Nampara to put a bullet in my side.”</p><p class="western">“He grazed you,” Merceron sneered. “We both know the wound to your pride is greater than that to your body.”</p><p class="western">“And what of <em>your</em> pride?,” Hanson retorted. He was turning an unsightly shade of red, the other man noted, as he so often did when angered. “It must smart very badly to know your vaunted judgement has failed you so utterly.”</p><p class="western">Merceron narrowed his eyes at him. His temper had never manifested itself in the same way as it did his choleric brother, but he could feel the beginnings of a deep displeasure beginning to bubble under the surface.</p><p class="western">“<em>My</em> judgement?,” he said, coolly. “It was <em>you</em> who brought him to my attention. <em>You</em> who sought him out as an ally.”</p><p class="western"><em>And</em> , he thought, <em>as a husband for that hoyden of yours.</em> He had seen his money and his titles and his positions and, desirous of all that as he had been, had failed to truly observe. Even though he refrained from speaking it, the accusation must have been plain on his face, for Hanson's gaze darkened at the sight of it.</p><p class="western">“And yet,” he replied acidly, “I don't ever recall you disagreeing.”</p><p class="western">Merceron turned to face the wall with a scowl. It was not often that he was inclined to admit it—especially not to his half-brother and barely even to himself—but he had to concede that he had made something of an error. He had always thought his judgement to be impeccable, but he had clearly made some small mistake in parsing the character of Sir George. Or rather, he considered grimly as he took a steadying swill from his brandy glass, he had observed the warning signs and had failed to heed them in the face of potential rewards.</p><p class="western">And oh, there had been warning signs—the amount of wasted effort they had spent attempting to persuade him to sign that damned contract for one. But really, it had started when he had had Poldark thrown down the mine. That, at least in hindsight, was when he had begun to notice the sense of disquiet in his supposed ally's demeanour. There had been a distinctly pained quality to his smile on that occasion, he recalled, and he had seemed decidedly discomfited by both his admission of truth concerning that blasted document and his insistence on deterring the Enyses from attempting to spread it any further. He had only truly taken note of his hesitation, however, when he had suggested going to the General with the stolen report. And what had he done—fool that he was—when he had confronted the man about it? Only blindly believed all his reassurances despite all the evidence to suggest them to be naught but barefaced lies.</p><p class="western">In his defence, though, he'd had no reason to suspect that anything of this sort when Hanson had first made contact with the man. He'd been a little wary, of course. Rich men could hardly pass by through life unnoticed, and the notoriety of the Warleggans had reached London well before they had caught wind of it. It had not been difficult to learn of Sir George's reputation, and what he had heard had had him suspecting that he would not be easy to manipulate. After all, a man did not amass a fortune of over two hundred thousand pounds with little more than half his life past by being stupid. Or scrupulous. But his brother had thought him perfect for their purpose, and Merceron, he supposed, had deemed him satisfactory enough upon meeting him. He was a stubborn man, yes, and not quite so ruthless as his uncle, but vulnerable; aimless and isolated in the wake of his wife's death. They had thought to use that, that he might be steered in the proper direction with the right application of skill, but in the end, their efforts had all been for naught. It had, he thought, been rather like betting on a horse that simply did not wish to race. One might tug on its reins with all their might, and they might even have it take a few steps in the right direction, but it would eventually tire of the interference, and all that would follow would be a sharp and swift kick to the head for one's troubles.</p><p class="western">“Do you think he'll die?”</p><p class="western">The question jerked him rudely out of his contemplations, pulled suddenly from past mistakes to harsh realities. He glanced over at his brother. The man had settled himself on his back, staring at the canopy of the bed with a frown upon his face.</p><p class="western">“You had best hope that he does” he replied darkly. He doubted that there was an outcome of this situation that could truly be called good, but he couldn't deny that Sir George's death would be the more expedient option of the true.</p><p class="western">“I?!” Hanson shot bolt upright with an alarmed exclamation, only to curse violently as his side was wrenched by the action. He had turned from very red to very white—a colour which Merceron knew had only a little to do with the pain from his injury. “But I shall be tried for murder if he dies! I would surely hang!”</p><p class="western">Merceron scoffed, taking another swig of brandy. As it so often did, it fell upon him to be the rational one in the family.</p><p class="western">“What evidence would there be that you had murdered anybody?,” he said. “That of Poldark and his wife? Of Enys? Poldark is in disgrace—he would never be believed—and the physician is tainted by association. Why, in the eyes of anyone of importance, it could well have been the General who shot Sir George, and you and he bravely facing against a known Jacobin sympathiser cavorting with the French to invade the land he owed loyalty to. In fact, it might even have been Poldark himself who pulled the trigger. A known rival, a man of violent tendencies, who has in the past attacked the victim on multiple occasions. Yes, that could—”</p><p class="western">“No, it could not,” Hanson said, abruptly interrupting the flow of what was shaping to be a perfect plan. “The other one knows. The uncle. He would know it to be a lie.”</p><p class="western">That, admittedly, gave Merceron pause. A tiny, insignificant part of him told him that Cary Warleggan might not appreciate his nephew having become collateral damage in one of their schemes—least of all if he died by his half-brother's hand—but the rest of him pushed the notion impatiently aside. The man had seen eye to eye with them plenty enough in the past, and if he did harbour some anger towards them, they could always find a place to redirect it.</p><p class="western">“He would know of the report,” he replied after a short pause, “and likely of his nephew's attempt to disrupt our plan, but he's no proof of who it was that fired the shot. If we were to persuade him that the General or Poldark were the culprit, there is a chance he might believe it.”</p><p class="western">There was a long silence as Hanson chewed on the thought. He had lain back down again, eyes directed once more towards the canopy of the bed. Eventually, he spoke.</p><p class="western">“And if he lives?”</p><p class="western">Merceron raised the brandy glass to his lips to disguise the wince he had not quite been able to repress at that thought. Sir George's death, though not without complications, could just well be spun to their advantage, but if he lived, he would no doubt bring a world of trouble down upon their heads.</p><p class="western">“Well, he has survived so far,” he conceded, reluctantly, “so there is a chance that he might. It would not be...ideal. We have been incautious with our words in his presence.”</p><p class="western">Good God what fools they had been. A low growl from the bed told him that his brother's thoughts were working along similar lines.</p><p class="western">“Do you think,” Hanson said, slowly; his eyes, still fixed upon the canopy above him, had narrowed to slits, “that there might be a way to...<em>ensure</em> that he does not wake?”</p><p class="western">Merceron shook his head. He wanted to—oh, how he wanted to—for the sake of revenge if nothing else, but he daren't risk it. Sir George was no disappearing secretary who might be dredged up on the banks of the Thames without comment. He was an all too public figure, and that meant that, no matter what happened, there would be scrutiny.</p><p class="western">“Such thoughts about a man you almost counted as your son-in-law!,” he scoffed. “But I doubt it, short of setting the house on fire. Poldark would recognise our man, and will no doubt be alert to any strangers appearing at Nampara. It would be inadvisable to incriminate ourselves further in this matter. We must simply hope that nature takes its course.”</p><p class="western">“And if it does not?” Hanson pressed, his brow furrowed.</p><p class="western"><em>If it does not, </em> Merceron thought, <em>then I <b>will</b> take revenge</em>. If there was one thing he hated, it was being defied, and he had been defied too many times throughout this whole business—by the Despards, by his niece and that brat with whom she had been enamoured, by the blasted Poldarks and Enyses and now by the sole man in Cornwall whom he had thought of as something of an ally. Well, if Sir George had chosen to throw his lot in with the other side, then so be it. He would see each and every one of them in the gutter, if he could not send them to the grave.</p><p class="western">“If he lives,” he said, taking a final great gulp of brandy and slamming it down upon the table with a loud bang, “then we must prepare for the worst.”</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><hr/><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The only sound in the firelit parlour was the chiming of the clock as its hands reached midnight, and the swishing of Demelza's skirts along the floor as she draped a warm, heavy blanket over the slumbering form of her husband beside the hearth. Ross had finally, <em>finally </em>succumbed to a deep and undisturbed sleep, some time in the afternoon after hours of trying in vain to stay awake, and had yet, much to her and Dwight's relief, to stir so much as an inch. He was resting at an odd angle, she noted as she carefully smoothed out the wrinkles in the fabric of the quilt, for which, no doubt, his muscles were not likely to thank him for come morning, but she did not dare wake him. If she did, after all, she was quite sure that he would only use it as an excuse to try and keep slumber at bay yet again.</p><p class="western">As she drew back, her eyes flickered up towards his face. His countenance, so lined and shadowed as it had been waking, was slack and open in sleep, so deep in his exhaustion that he remained untroubled by the night terrors she knew he had feared might plague his resting mind. It brought her some measure of comfort, for she knew how much the events of the previous night were preying on his mind—on all their minds—and their unexpected visit from Cary Warleggan had done little to set them at ease. Some of the old man's fire had been lost from his anger after having seen George—for which she wasn't sure if they had the sight of his wounded nephew, or else some well-timed words from Dwight to thank—but nothing could have blunted the sting of his parting words as he made to return to Trenwith.</p><p class="western">“<em>It should be you</em>,” he had snarled in Ross' face as he snatched his—sadly unburnt—hat from Prudie's grasp. “<em>It should be you bleeding out on that bed, not him. Time and again you put those around you in danger with your stupidity but, by God, never did I think I'd see the day where it was </em><em><b>he</b></em><em> who paid the price for your need to play the hero.”</em></p><p class="western">Then, he had gone before any of them could summon a word in protest, and it was clear from Ross expression that his mind had turned to black thoughts.</p><p class="western">“<em>Ye mustn't blame yeself, Ross,”</em> she had told him, a while later, as they sat together beside the hearth. <em>“George 'as a mind of 'is own, an' fer whate'er reason, 'twas he alone that chose t' save 'ee—wi' no persuadin' or forcin' or lurin' into danger from any of us, least of all ye. An' I fer one am thankful that he did.”</em></p><p class="western">And despite barely being able to make sense of any of it, she found that she really, truly was. If anyone had told her even a few nights ago that she would ever be grateful to George Warleggan of all people, she would have laughed in their face, but now... Judas, now, how things had changed. She was horribly, acutely aware of what could have happened to them if he had not intervened when he had. Her husband dead—slaughtered, perhaps in the heat of the General's fiery anger, or cold-bloodedly shot in the back by the awful Hanson. Herself dead as well, possibly, once Toussaint had discovered her ruse to buy Ross a little time. It did not bear thinking about—those horrible possibilities that set her stomach churning—but somehow, it seemed unfair to hide from them whilst the man who had saved them from facing them lay upstairs, close to death, so that they might walk away unharmed.</p><p class="western">Demelza let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair. Her own tiredness was beginning to catch up with her, and she swayed slightly on her feet, her vision blurring, before she righted herself again. Perhaps, she thought, and the thread of it tailed off before she could find it again. Perhaps she had best go to bed herself.</p><p class="western">With that in mind, she crept carefully out of the parlour and up the stairs, mindful to keep quiet as she passed the half-closed door to Ross' study, where they had set up a makeshift bed for Dwight. He, she recalled, had been even more difficult to persuade to rest than her husband, having only consented to do so after Prudie had taken over his vigil at George's bedside some time in the evening, and had balked once again when Caroline had proposed to spend the night at Killewarren so as not to impose on their already somewhat overstretched hospitality. Both she and Dwight had been uneasy at the thought of her travelling and sleeping alone when Merceron had already demonstrated his readiness to target her, but an offer from Geoffrey Charles, returned from the beach with the two children, to accompany her home and stay for the night had effectively quieted their protests. Still, she thought that there had been something in the uneasiness in Dwight's expression, and the flicker of sadness in Caroline's as she departed, that suggested to her that something was not entirely well between the two of them—something not quite to do with George and his teetering on the brink between life and death. It made her wonder, privately, if the ghost of poor baby Sarah still lingered with them, as that of her dear little Julia had with her and Ross.</p><p class="western">Filled with a sudden melancholy that she knew from experience that she could not hope to chase away alone, she decided to check on Jeremy and Clowance before heading to her own bedchamber. The door gave a little groan as she pushed it open, but the two occupants of the room did not stir. She had tucked both of them in neatly when she had put them to bed earlier that night, but they had managed, as they often did, to ruck up the covers into a cosy nest, from which only their little faces were peeping out of, peaceful and untroubled in sleep. Despite the sadness in her heart, Demelza couldn't help but smile at the sight of them. In the soft moonlight, they looked like tiny angels, without a care or worry in the world.</p><p class="western">But they were not without cares, or worries, and with that thought, she withdrew back into the corridor and closed the door behind her with a soft click, the smile on her face fading into nothing as if it had never been. She glanced towards the door where she knew George lay, fighting even now for his life. Then she thought of Ross, asleep downstairs, and she wondered what they—the children—must think, or fear, or what they might feel for their father, and for her, after everything that had happened. How could she ever explain it to them? She felt a surge of anger and hurt rise suddenly in her chest—the first, irrational, left over from the false notion that Ross had yet again betrayed her, and the second, something deeper; the knowledge that he had chosen to push her away rather than trust her with the truth. She swallowed thickly, feeling tears gather in her eyes, but she forced them down and turned about on her heel with a shaky sigh, heading towards her chamber to ready herself for bed.</p><p class="western">She slept fitfully, her restless mind conjuring forth all manner of lurid dreams filled with shouts and gunfire and the clash of steel on steel. When she next awoke, it was to a cold, dark room, lit only by the embers of the dying fire in the grate and the soft gloaming outside that preceded the rising of the sun. She frowned, passing a hand over her sleep-heavy eyes as she wondered what it was that had awoken her. The wind had picked up, she noticed—a storm coming in off the sea perhaps. Above her, she could hear a faint scrabbling from the direction of the roof, and she tensed, thinking for a moment that it might be mice, but she relaxed once it was followed by a series of whistles and clicks amid a flurry of shuffling and the soft whir of flapping wings. Just the starlings roosting in the eaves, she thought. She entertained herself with the notion that they sounded as sleepy as her, disturbed, perhaps, by the mounting gale blustering outside their cosy little nook.</p><p class="western">For a while, she lay there, listening to the sounds outside as she tried to get back to sleep, but her mind, filled as it was by thoughts of Ross, and of George, and of the children, would not settle. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to peer in through the window, and she could hear the starlings shuffling and flapping about more vigorously than ever, readying themselves, no doubt, for the day ahead. She thought she might as well do the same—so much was there to do with everything that had happened. But even as she ran through in her mind a list of chores with which she might distract herself, her thoughts ventured towards Prudie, who was probably still stationed at George's bedside after relieving Dwight of his post, and from Prudie to George himself, lying still and wounded just along the corridor, brought too close to death by the bullet which had been very near meant for her husband...</p><p class="western">Perhaps she might sit with him for a while, she thought, if only to give Prudie a little rest.</p><p class="western">She dressed as quickly and as efficiently as she could, leaving her red hair hanging loose about her shoulders. It was light enough now that there was no need for a candle, but there was a definite chill to the air now that the fire was so low, and so she wrapped a thick, warm shawl about her before she headed out into the corridor. The floorboards creaked even under her light tread, but with the whole house groaning like an old ship under the force of the wind, she barely even noticed the sound of it.</p><p class="western">It did not take long for her to reach the door to the bedchamber in which George lay, but as she stood before it, listening to the clatters and moans of the wind outside, a sudden hesitance overcame her. She knew George so very little, after all, and all of it so unpleasantly coloured by his feud with Ross—it seemed...beyond bizarre to sit vigilant at the sickbed of a man who was nearly a stranger to her, and a deeply unfriendly one at that. But, whatever else he might have been, he was also the man who had saved her husband's life, and for that, she felt, he was owed at least a little kindness.</p><p class="western">The room was dim and cold when she entered, the fire flickering so low in the hearth that it was barely there at all. On the far side of it to the bed sat Prudie, slumped in the rickety old chair with her head resting vaguely on her limp hand, and unmistakably fast asleep. Demelza sighed. So much for vigilance, she thought with a wry smile.</p><p class="western">That same smile, however, soon faded into embers as her eyes turned from her slumbering friend to the unconscious figure on the bed. She was so used to seeing George at his most polished, impeccably dressed, haughty and emotionless, save for that hint of simmering anger shining through the cool facade in his cold blue eyes. Now, he couldn't have looked more different. He seemed veritably swamped by the warm, heavy covers and the oversized clothes, as if he might at any moment fade away and be swallowed whole. His cheeks seemed too hollow, with dark shadows like blank sockets under his closed eyes, as if he were already halfway towards becoming an empty skeleton, as if he were wasting away into nothing and she might blink and—</p><p class="western">She turned sharply away. It would not do to entertain such morbid thoughts. That, she felt, was nothing short of encouraging them to become reality, and no matter what had happened between them in the past, she'd no wish for George to die. She searched about for something to distract her, and her eyes fell upon the low embers of the fire. It would be best to keep him warm, she thought, and there was a distinct bite to the chill in the air which she did not like.</p><p class="western">Trying to stoke up the flames seemed easier, somehow, than having to look upon the figure on the bed, and so when the faint sound of somebody stirring reached her ears over the quiet rattling of the poker, she barely paid it any mind. It was probably Prudie, she thought, talking in her sleep. Another sound, however, was beginning to encroach upon her notice—the wind roaring, then a fierce rattling, followed by a loud, sudden <em>bang</em> that had her almost dropping her poker in shock. Startled, she looked up to see that the window had been wrenched clean open in the gale, swinging back and forth so savagely that she feared the pane might break.</p><p class="western">“What in th' name o'—?” Prudie awoke, flailing and spluttering at the sound. Demelza put down the poker and reached out to calm her.</p><p class="western">“Peace, Prudie, 'tis only the wind.”</p><p class="western">She headed over to the window and caught hold of it, blasted by a bluster of air so cold and ferocious that her eyes stung with the force of it before she managed to fasten it shut. Outside, heavy black clouds, laden with rain, were rolling in from the sea.</p><p class="western">It was then that she heard that faint murmur for a second time, and she knew, then, that it had not come from Prudie. She turned about towards the bed, feeling a burgeoning sense of unease rising up in her chest as her gaze fell upon George. Where before his face had been slack and expressionless, his brow was now drawn into a little frown. He let out another tiny whimper, his head turning slightly to the side, and she could see his eyes moving back and forth restlessly behind his lids, as if he were dreaming. There was a flush to his cheeks, she noticed, that she did not at all like.</p><p class="western">Her unease fast turning to alarm, she rushed over to the bed, ignoring Prudie's flapping and flustering behind her. Reaching out carefully, she brushed aside one of his stray, tangled curls and pressed a hand to his forehead. He tried to evade the touch with a jerk of his head, muttering some incoherent words, his expression twisting in distress and discomfort. Something, she thought, which sounded very much like <em>“Elizabeth, please...”</em> Demelza could feel her heart pounding in her throat as she drew away. He was hot. Far too hot.</p><p class="western">“Judas!,” she cried. “Dwight, come quick!”</p><p class="western"> </p><hr/><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <em>He was in his bedchamber at Trenwith. Or, at least, that was where he thought he must be. His vision was oddly blurred, shapes that might have been windows and walls and chairs swirling together in a strange sludge of colour, sliding in and out of blackness as if someone were lighting candles by his bedside and then blowing them out again, so that he was plunged right back into darkness. There was a pain in his side, yet he could feel it, not just in his abdomen, but from the tips of his toes right to his brow, where it throbbed incessantly behind his eyeballs. He was hot—very hot—and he wanted water.</em>
</p><p class="western">“<em>I thought we might ride out in the afternoon.”</em></p><p class="western">
  <em>George's head turned in the direction of the familiar voice. There she was. Elizabeth, sitting, elegant and poised before her vanity at the end of the bed. He could see her quite clearly, dressed in an old plum-coloured striped gown, feathers and ribbons adorning her dark brown hair, and dabbing rosewater delicately behind her ears. It occurred to him that it was odd that she had chosen to wear such an out-of-fashion dress. After another moment, he realised that it was even odder that she had chosen it for an outing. He was far from an expert in ladies' clothing, but he knew enough to know that it was not generally the custom to ride in a ballgown.</em>
</p><p class="western">“<em>There is a fine blanket of snow on the ground.” She spoke, not directly to him, but towards her triptych mirror, where her face was reflected three ways. “It seems a shame to spoil it, but it would be a greater shame not to enjoy it while it lasts. I've heard tell that it is the worst winter in thirty years. It is just as well we can afford to keep the fires going.”</em></p><p class="western">
  <em>The eyes of the reflection were dark in the firelight, a far cry from their usual soft green-brown, and the flames dancing in her hair made the ribbons seem alive, as if they were thin, dark snakes coiling sinuously through her curls. He wanted to shut his eyes to block out the weird jumps and flickers in his vision—it was making him feel faintly sick—but he could barely think, his head was so heavy. He felt both hot and cold, and that horrible pain was still throbbing everywhere throughout his body.</em>
</p><p class="western">“<em>'S hot,” he managed, but the words were not easy in coming, as if he had had to mine the memory of speech from some deep recess of his brain. “Too hot...”</em></p><p class="western">“<em>I fear Geoffrey Charles might be delayed,” Elizabeth continued, as if he had not spoken. “You sent for the carriage, did you not? They are already very late.”</em></p><p class="western">
  <em>She put away her rosewater and reached out for something on the table. A glittering string of gold uncoiled from its leather box as she made to fasten it about her neck, and in the reflection of the mirror, he saw that it was the necklace he had given her after Valentine’s christening.</em>
</p><p class="western">“<em>I...” </em></p><p class="western">
  <em>He was struggling to follow the thread of her conversation. With the throbbing in his head and side, and that damnable heat burning beneath his skin, it seemed as if each sentence were moving from subject to subject in strange jumps and blurs. There was a loud, clattering bang nearby, and his ears were filled with a whispering as if of murmuring voices as Elizabeth turned to face him, the skirts of her gown swishing about her feet. The jewels of her necklace glinted in the firelight, like deep red droplets of blood against her sternum.</em>
</p><p class="western">“<em>Do you not like my dress, George?” she said.</em></p><p class="western">
  <em>He wanted to answer her, but he... Her too-dark eyes and her too-white skin and her too red-lips... There was... He felt something brush against his forehead all of a sudden—a hand, that could not be his wife's, when she was sitting all the way at the end of his bed. He tried to jerk away from the touch, and as he did so, he spotted a glimmer of something in Elizabeth's hand. The stopper of a small, thin vial, and three amber drops into a glass of port like beads of poison, glimpsed so briefly in a mirror image that he couldn't quite be sure of what he had seen.</em>
</p><p class="western">“<em>Elizabeth,” he murmured. “Elizabeth, please, don't...”</em></p><p class="western">
  <em>But he couldn't move, couldn't stop her. There was a shout above him—“Judas, Dwight, come quick!”—from a voice he vaguely recognised but could not quite place, but he paid it no mind. Elizabeth had already raised the glass to her lips, and as she drank, he felt the pain and sickness soar as his world collapsed into darkness, and heat, and chaos. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter: George battles the fever under Dwight's care, some Caroline POV, and Ross spots an unwelcome visitor at Nampara.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! This fic is going to be pretty long, so I'd like to keep to a weekly schedule for posting updates, but in all honesty I don't know if I'll be able to stick to that. This fic's been a long time in the works (pretty much since the summer when the series aired) but there's still a lot of gaps to fill in, and I'm hoping that starting to post it will give me the motivation to finish those bits off. Anyway, in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this and feel free to pop over to my tumblr on upstartpoodle.tumblr.com, where I keep all my fic, including a couple of little extracts of this one.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>